Monday, November 10, 2014

in hot blood

I am a woman most offended,
wearing hosiery that can't be mended.
You'd think that if you paid
seven fifty-five
for a flimsy skein of silk that
it could possibly survive
for more than oh, maybe-- a day?
But, no, in our modern capitalistic clime,
Our clothes are made to break and fray,
squeezing value out of every dime.
And so I totter into work,
with steely face
and laddered thighs.

Slathering my calves with invisible nail polish,
I attempted to arrest the inevitable demolish-
ment of my poor pantyhose,
for what's a girl to do without a pair of those
delicate and fragile death-traps
whose threads, if ruffled by too harsh a zephyr, snaps
and snags and tears and rips and unravels,
leaving my business casual chic in shambles.

Whenever I would move my toe,
or cross my knees, or wag them to and fro,
the delicate little rivulets and runs
would trickle up my leg,
breaking the weaving open, one by one,
taunting me with their own inevitable action.
I was left without a suitable reaction.

So, I, stuttering with rage, thinking:
What have we come to in our day and age.
When women can not go down to the corner drugstore
and purchase tights that last a week or more?!
betook myself into the powder room to mope
over passing of my ravaged nude control top
Oh Lord, I prayed, inside my bathroom stall,
Why do I bother buying anything at all?
My penny-pinching wallet was protesting
at wasting its efforts for a temporary vesting.
An imprudent spenditure of funds, it tsked.
While I pouted, feeling ill-used and miffed.

And then, I laughed.
For just the night before I wrote,
a scene that needed something more concrete:
a dilemma or an issue must occur,
to demonstrate our heroine's thrift and verve.
And so I laughed.
For this was a feminine problem per excellance,
which I now had for my artistic provenance!
Wracking my brains for inspiration,
I found it in this mundane consternation.
Out, damned run, I chirped at my ripped hose,
All the perfumes of Arabia were ne'er sweeter than those.

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