I never wanted anyhow to be one
of those plump
and fuzzy-headed muttering old cows
whose house
is redolent of lavender and
talcum powder…
keeping cats like stage-play
props and wearing black
organza dresses, living in a
cottage by herself and
being hard of hearing… introduced
and soon
forgotten, merely typical of one
long in the tooth...
invisible to children and the
nonchalant.
In want of sensitivity, my
youthful doctor called me
“Dear,” you see. No one, I’ll
bet you, treated
Hepburn so dismissively when
she was in her winter
years. I need a bit more
eccentricity — a memorable
sort of chic that’s mine alone.
Suppose I go with
slender, spirited, a bit
untidy, blowsy, mussed, and
sunburned as if just returned
from horseback riding,
dressed in faded Levi’s and chiffon,
diaphanous in
white, a generously ruffled
blouse high-collared
with a china button cover at
the neck... and energetic
in my charity and kindness,
doing all the good I
might... set in my ways,
however, vaguely batty,
slightly deaf, and keeping
cats
