The Cackler

A quiet bar,
voices murmuring lowly, intimately;
only the piano's sweet refrains
drifted on the air.
I heard her cackle.
Sagging breasts past their prime,
exposed in a dress for one much younger,
outdated and out of season,
certainly just to the left of good taste.
The ends of her hair frazzled and scorched,
as if she styled it with a burning match,
making her even more pitifully common.
Her date was enthralled with her beauty,
oblivious to the cackle that irked the rest of us.
Alas, she held court as would I if that age again,
exposing my self-considered beauty to anyone
under the influence who would find it fascinating.
And I would likely cackle.


April 2009