The phrase, just a bump in the road,
aggravates me because it doesn’t address
the times the road caves in, and I really
need a flashlight to find where my feet have landed.
I’m not always the director of my drama.
Life too often of late has channeled Martin Scorsese
to turn my latest travesty sequel into a movie that runs out
of popcorn before the opening credits have stopped scrolling.
I’m jealous of the fourteen-year-old me who filled
a diary with nothing, but whining about being fat,
and how life was soooo unbearable without a boyfriend.
A rainy Sunday and arthritis are perfect guests
for my tea party of grumbles, my why’s, and damn it’s.
Therapists sing the song of how wrong
it is to keep pent up emotions inside,
speak or journal them.
Welcome to my therapy!
I think I might just be one of the elderly women
Scarlet O’Hara went on about … I’ve tossed the corset
and put more lemon in my lemon biscuits.
Ok, I must confess I do feel a fit of cackles teasing my pout.
My mood matches my hair, gray, unruly, and denying
I’m the hornet queen of my own nest.
©Susie Clevenger 2024
