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She laughs too often and too loud; tries hard
to please, to fit in, be one of the lads;
talks a good drink, makes out she's a bit mad;
but sips her wine, never quite off her guard,
always self-conscious, ever the nerd;
attempts the clown's part as the glasses chink -
contorts her face, puts on a voice - she thinks
it cute: it's ugly and she sounds absurd.
But curled in her big chair, two cats upon
her lap, a book, a pot of tea - a calm
descends, and she becomes herself; the harm
of two score years, the wear, the damage, gone.
And what remains is wisdom, dignity,
and beauty of the utmost purity.
- COMMENTS
