my poem…

My poem

This poem shuffles out
onto the train
self-conscious,
looking both ways.

Its sunburn scalding
the starched pink dress
scratching the swollen skin-
tender pink and sore.

It makes me swoon,
and softly fall
to the filthy floor
below

crumpled by the faint
I melt: a pillow of pink
my eyes close
the door opens.

the crowd steps over me
eager to get on their way…
the car empties
leaving a pink burnt plop:

the fourteen year old
victim of the sun
on NYC subway’s floor
is left to ride alone.

a memory from 1955
Jeanne in the mountains
3/4/2021

Riddle #34 What goes WHACK in the night?

‘Twas romance on the wild lagoon
With largest catch from far to soon.
Husband shows his wife the place
Where magic lights upon his face.

With largest catch from far to soon
Those fish sure bite before the moon
Raises frogs; makes turtles swoon.

Husband shows his wife the place
Which beckons nightly for his grace
Canoe or kayak, rod in case.

Where magic lights upon his face
And beavers threaten with their “whacks”
How dare you fish in beaver’s place?