Liz Riseden
It’s cold. I might
have walked in
more practical clothes.
but, I wanted
Sunday dress up
all day.
Now, I trudge up a steep hill,
toes in pigeon waddle. Puddles of panty
hose creep down my legs.
Inexorable triumph of gravity.
I’ve still a mile to struggle.
Nowhere to hide,
disrobe. Remove my tennies,
footies, reach under
my skirt, discard the duplicitous stranglers.
I have no problem abandoning
them at road’s side. Critters should tear
them to shreds, a fit consequence
of leaving me literally
in the lurch. Burgundy puddles.
Wine cascades toward toes.
Mincing, now, better than any sprite, I slowly
plod upward.
How have others coped?
The wind gusts
around me; I imagine a gale
will pull fabric my from legs,
send shreds to hug
passing sage, decorate buckbrush
like veils flirting at a dance.
Silly vanity
reddens my cheeks.
I won’t hike in nylons again.
Identity - Past and Present Armenian Girl
Lara Chauvin