[Authorís note: In response to a rapidly diminishing number of requests, I skipped this morningís dose of prose-ac in order to perpetrate another wanton act of alleged poetry. Remember Ė Iím just responding to peer pressure here.]
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Must be a mixed breed,
Crossed with an Afghan hound.
Flowing Titian tresses
Shed all over the damn floor,
Sticking everywhere we step
And reappearing as if by magic
All through the laundry.
What are your socks made out of? Velcro?
Pick and pull, pick and pull, strand by strand
As each pair emerges from the dryer
(the auxiliary underwear drawer.)
I can never catch the elusive creature at it,
But it must curl up in my La-Z-Boy
When Iím not looking.
I arise from my recliner
With a gossamer auburn web
All over my butt
On my black yoga pants.
Damn dog! (Thatís my storyÖ)
I suppose thereís something I could do about it,
But Nature abhors a vacuum,
And Eureka makes me feel
Like a natural woman.
I have to tie the beast(s) up
Every time I walk into the kitchen
Lest all our dinners sprout devil hair pasta/floss.
Donít ask me how I can tell,
But I can usually feel when one of them
Is attempting to slip away from the others.
It touches the skin on my arm on the way down
As it attempts to snuggle down into the crook of my elbow
Or hang from my sleeve like a sloth.
Dear obsessive-compulsive little Deb, at work,
Gorilla-grooms the ones sliding down my back.
She canít help herself.
I swear the damn things materialize
Out of the dampness left in the bottom of the tub
When I step out of the shower.
And sometimes when I go to the bathroomÖ
Well, we wonít go there.
Suffice it to say
Youíre not supposed to floss THAT end!
Kinda pathetic, really Ė
The way Iíve allowed them to define my identity,
The most immediate and overt of the many ways
Iíve always been differentiated from others.
My favorite uncle nicknamed me after them.
The black girls I grew up with
Often seemed fascinated by them,
Touching, stroking, braiding them
As they sat behind me in the bleachers
During assemblies and movies and whatnot.
I didnít mind, really.
I suppose Iíll miss them when theyíre all gone,
Usurped by the white ones infiltrating as we speak.
At least I know that Iíll keep finding traces of them
For a long time yet.
I donít have any children of my own.
This is my legacy,
Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana. - Groucho Marx