On the Edge

by Maureen Anne Browne

kenmolin@talktalk.net

I sit on the edge

of my unmade bed

staring at pink wallpaper.

I should be singing

along with Celine Dion

as I lather my skin

with exotics from Africa;

dither over the slinky

blue dress with the split,

or the short black silk;

make up my face, adding the glitter,

glam my nails.

The sun slips through

a chink in my curtains

dappling furniture,

glinting chrome and silver;

my mobile, phone plays tunes

beneath the bedclothes;

mirrors can't seduce me;

I am down

the dark of my mind

feeling my way

through the rough,

the mistakes -

the taxi waits . . .

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