Dank Mid-Winter

The bare legs of English girls in winter minis

bring mottled blue bumps out on my flesh

as my mother’s predictions don’t come true:

windswept skirts, shrunken ovaries

and that boys prize virginity above all else.

No, my watchman whispers hoarsely now:

it’s experience

and I’ve left it far too late.

 

But alcohol, that great leveler,

the way they drink to fuel their gab,

that did not find me

till my forties

when I remember

and

forget.

 

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Lynn invites us to write a poem inspired by the title (and symbolism) of Harper Lee’s ‘Go Set a Watchman’ novel. Who or what acts as your personal watchman and do you choose to follow that voice of conscience or ignore it? For far too long my watchman was my mother. It took me a long time to figure out she may have been wrong about certain things. And right about others.