P. P. C.—Madam Life

All through the heavy plush of afternoon, Your muffin-hands in your upholstered lap, I listened to your voice like maple-sap Trickle and whisper from its sugary spoon Grandmother-talk, a drowning warm lagoon, Weakling advice, slow anecdotes of pap— And longed for fins to wave or wings to flap, Or anything to end the visit soon.

Now the call ceases—there shall be no other— Dowager Life, I bend above your hand. Flung from your hothouse to the tempest-smother Your fright calls Death and dares not understand! Such a nice chat! Oh, taking leave is hard! But—here’s my body for a calling-card!