Women are the walking wounded
in the battlefield of life
of deaths never sounded
the casualty of daughter and wife
believers in sighs matter
but not the battle of sexes
of jokers that hem and flatter
then hit her in the solar plexus
cards with wrapped intention
from the bottom of the deck
the mother of invention
cursed by the monthly check
relying on her feminine wiles
in the game of hope chests
and of adulterated smiles
and abandoned bird nests
chicks flying the coop
the crime of aging
walking with a stoop
with regrets raging
trying gamely to depart
with a shred of decency
but with a broken heart
not to look back and see
like Lot’s wife, a drear miss
a sweet pillar of salt
a miscarriage of justice
fathered by John Galt
woven by the distaff
a beautiful female delusion
a yarn of colorful chaff
a patch quilt of confusion.
Robert Forrey
