These old bleach bearing hags
are aborting me from my
long self-imposed adolescence,
demanding adult compromises,
mature decisions,
clear-thinking life choices.

From doorways they chase
me with their brooms.
Snaggled, giggling house witches
they’re interrupting my
pretty dreams, spilling
cleanser on my collected
prosody. Behind my back
they fill out civil service
forms in my name. Sign me
up for PTA. Recommend me
for capitalist ventures.

These boring old bags,
totally unpoetic,
belching blasphemies
at the muse,
cackling in God’s face,
scratching in places where
they shouldn’t. Dip snuff
and spit on poetry. Their
gray-toothed grin showing
gums blood red real. They
pick their teeth in public,
spit as they please. Believe
no one more than the lice
crawling up their leg. In
this insidious daylight
their lunatic genius eyes
more luminous that sun,
their face more perspicuous
than saints.