Women Friends

Sixty, I reckon, is where we wind up
When a thirty-four-B is no longer our cup
At least not without elongating the straps
And wishin’ we’uz home in our jammies at that

Sixty, my dear, is the place when we know
The probable outcome of most any show
Though still we enthuse over every new plot
And give em’ applause at the end of the lot

Sixty, by heaven, is when we like dusk
That time after sunset, a whole lot like us
For the glare of the sun is no longer enticing
But the softness of evening is more to our liking

The thing that I like about sixty, you see
Is that it’s a pleasant enough malady
And other than coveting cookies a tad
This old lady stuff isn’t really that bad

**

Night Sky

The old moon comes out and looks around, then she slowly sits down in her recliner.

Pretty soon, she starts unraveling the stars that she knitted by mistake last night when she should have been purling.

It takes near the whole night to fix that mistake.

Toward morning, she purls up the last of the stars and takes her handiwork back into the house.

**

Roadblocks

Cows are out

Udders swaying

Pendulum tails mis-marking time

Lanky, languorous roadblocks

Moooooove over