Behind the washed out washing
On the worn out old clothes line
The woman sits with her morning coffee.
It’s hot today, so she doesn’t bother
Dressing in any other way than to be cool.
Mornings allow her to remember,
Reminiscing is all she has now.
Children, grown and moved away
Husband left her for she was unlovable,
A crone and a bitch deserving of nothing.
After years of hearing it, she accepts her reality.
Last week she heard from one child
The artist boy was in Paris, doing well he said
She smiled at the news, and now she recalls
Paris when she was younger,
the Ballet School of the Opéra national de Paris
Where she spent ten years before marrying the man
Who fathered her children and promised so much.
She wonders what course her life may have taken
Had she ignored his advances and not been so needy.
The beauty of hindsight she knows is wondering
What might have been?
Her lithe body is now spent,
Who would believe she was once prima ballerina material?