To brownish red
Here I am.
Would make me
An old lady
With dyed hair.
But it is a “good” gray
I am told.
Would that they
A “good” wrinkle,
Or a “good” sag?
No such luck.
Once you step upon a stage or a screen,
Are you ever the boy or girl next door?
I’ve done a voiceover or two, have you?
And seen actors speak my words on a stage.
It is hard when it’s over forever.
Hard to grow up and be a mere mortal.
Surrounded by the beautiful people
In New York or L.A., we were so young.
Thin and firm and dark of hair and laughing.
Back in the day when life and money glowed.
The Peace marches stopped. Consumption began.
And we didn’t need children or a home.
We forgot to get the kids and the home.
And now, it’s too late, and too difficult.
Frozen in a rebel pose, we play at art.
Not selling a seat nor earning the nut.
And yet, and yet, and yet, we cannot stop.
And yet, and yet, and yet, it’s who we are.
Million dollar question.
Has anyone ever daydreamed of me?
Were my eyes or my hands or my hair,
The subtle signal that op’d the poets maw?
No. Quite the opposite, I fear.
My ego may crave such adoration
But when a man pines and daydreams
It ain’t about an intellectual with sagging tits.
Giving up my fantasies and daydreams
Are harder than booze or drugs because
They’re free in my head.
And just as bad.
I was the rescuer, dragging my poor husbands
Up and down the East Coast
Trying to make them into something,
Out of their reach.
But only men that no woman wanted
The totally broken and insane and
Hopeless were easily available to me.
Or so I thought.
DId I sustain myself and soothe my soul
With daydreams of stronger strangers while
Saying “I love you” to the resident losers?
You bet your ass.
And if the loser suddenly realized and blossomed,
Became a man and earned his keep
You know what the rescuing lady would discover?