Musings by The Poet Loriet
She's A Bad Mama-Jama
Our picket fence rotted
underneath the white paint.
I'm stuck with 2.5 cars,
the house, swingset, pool--
and all the idealisms
of the American Dream,
yet my neighbors stare at me
as if they can visualize
my scarlet letter.
They whisper stories
about police cars
and shouted words.
They cluck their tongues,
"What a shame!," and
turn their heads away.
The year is 2003,
but time stands still
behind picket fences,
and good girls don't.
Lori Beal
underneath the white paint.
I'm stuck with 2.5 cars,
the house, swingset, pool--
and all the idealisms
of the American Dream,
yet my neighbors stare at me
as if they can visualize
my scarlet letter.
They whisper stories
about police cars
and shouted words.
They cluck their tongues,
"What a shame!," and
turn their heads away.
The year is 2003,
but time stands still
behind picket fences,
and good girls don't.
Lori Beal
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She`s A Bad Mama-Jama
She`s A Bad Mama-Jama
