Poem for My Mother's Tall, Skinny Friend
O, why am I befriended by
arm-waving women,
those large-busted ladies
on decorating committees?
Why must I be accessory
to women in polka-dot dresses,
with armadillo purses, and voices
urgent as downshifting trucks?
Me, the power pole, the flag pole,
keeping the current flowing,
and banners in reach of a breeze.
Them, the stars, stripes, and megawatts.
Well, pity us when the lines go down,
the wind gone.
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