WHITTLED

Remembering my youth

when I towered above the shore

casting my shadow over

darting fish and

busy crawdads.

Some days, I’d bury my head

in the clouds and catch

raindrops, letting them

slip down and down and down.

Now I am old, whittled,

a fraction of what I was

resting on the shore

watching the sun pass

through the sky

and basking in

its warmth.

waiting

Turn the key and leave the room,
through recycled and refrigerated air
to the waiting room where
the waiting
begins.

Another woman joins me
tugging at the belt of her
elf sized robe. Carefully
we avoid eye contact
and pretend to read the
dog eared magazines
strewn across the table,
waiting for our turns
at the mammo machine.

Tuttle Dreams

Tuttle dreams

of climbing trees

and soaring with flights

of bumble bees,

stalking clouds and

shooting stars and

talking to the man from Mars.

But when he wakes

(and it’s not fair)

he’s on the ground, not

in the air.

He looks left and

then looks right

noticing it’s

Almost night.

He yawns and stretches

thinks, what the hell,

and pulls back

inside his shell.

Tuttle the turtle

nods off once more.

Being a turtle is

such a bore.

Sweetie Pie

Sweetie Pie sashayed through the restaurant. She knew she was looking good. Heads turned to follow her progress and, she’d swear to it, she even witnessed a well-dressed couple drool at the thought of just a few minutes alone with her. But she had other plans.

Throughout her life Sweetie Pie had been oohed and aahed over. There was something about her that promised deep satisfaction to all who saw her. But she knew she was so much more than just a tasty piece. It might sound cheesy, but she was determined to make something of herself before life could get stale and boring and her looks melted away.

Sweetie Pie pushed through the door to the sidewalk. Temporarily blinded by the setting sun glinting off a passing car, she didn’t even see the man camped out near the corner. Before she had time to slip her sunglasses on she went tumbling, frothy hair flying, and landed in his lap. His warm touch melted her brittle shell and she knew fate had found her at last.

Photo copyright Irene MacFarland.