It’s cold for Phoenix
One pink cloud floats over the golden last light of day
I must be quintessentially middle aged by now
Pulled scarlet pimpernels and ragweed for two chilly hours in a denim gardening get up
Shredded 7’s and a faded button down with holes in the elbows
Looking like some kind of tripped out farmer with a
white cotton turban on my head
My hair is oiled with rosemary and jojoba
long, thick shiny hair with a few humbling strands of gray
I wrap a flimsy wool shawl around my neck and contemplate the sky as it turns lilac over Piestawa
A Benson and Hedges DeLuxe is the perfect canvas for red lipstick
I wish my lips were adorned with rose malicieux instead of shea butter
It looks sexy on a white filter.
I sit in my chair
My chair
Vodka with a couple black Toschi cherries dance in a crystal shot glass on a wicker table
I smoke and feel a rush
Happy New Year
I’m not dead yet.
Autobiography
Comments are closed.
Likes
1025 Views
Share:
This is a great poem! You took me to a verdant scenery in your gardening attire and
fruity makeup and finished with a cool glass of vodka. Great imagery!