She likes small things and small talk
Sipping her hot tea in front of the telly
And rereading the same old book in her garden seat

Seasons changed and her youth
Didn’t fade in her rosy cheeks
Glistening glamorous glance
Thrown to every male-being crossing her drive.
She can still be the target of men’s lust
Why couldn’t she, anyway?

Rainwater dripping from the eave
There’s something wrong
with her old place
its with weird odour
(Basil, maybe even hot pepper…)
enchants the spirit and she feels comfortable this way

people say she’s no princess no more
and that only because of her odd preoccupations
feeding the worms in the marshy field next to her property
and most of the times
talking to herself, nay shouting
or other times just giggling…
but that's the way she is

a Silly-Billy Sianesse

she casts spells on every flower in the garden,
especially this time of year
when there’s an explosion of yellow
in wordsworthian daffodils…
lucky her they all work and yet
the street lamp is her only company to bed
(her devious moon, chained by a completely useless pole)

to be continued