Email Poem

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Poem

"What is wrong?" my friends ask, in a good way.
Not in a mean way or anything.
How much do I share?
How much do I dare?
Have you met me?
Do you know me at all?
Have I not proven I'm the transparent 
9 year-old-boy, lying angrily inside an
old woman of complete niceness's body?
If you don't know that,
then you don't know me.
So "How do you do?" I
am Caren.  I am only
a mystery to those who
have not returned my first
"Hi."  My mother reported that
the mailman had to bring us 
(Us being my twin and I) to the
house, and she had to hold onto
us until he had gotten out of sight
because he had made the faux
paus of telling us how cute we
were when we were 4, and full
of our cute darling twin selves.
He made his little error when 
he got carried away and added, 
"I wish I could take you two dolls
home with me."  Meeting his wife
years later, when she refused to
give another lady the chair her
purse was seitting on, I am
SO glad he did what his brain
told him was the thing to do
instead of his heart that loved us.
I'm pretty sure he had a hard
life with You-Cannot-Have-
My-Purse's-Chair-Woman.
Whereas he was always cheerful,
upbeat and charming, she was
a dour woman with a mean down lip.

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