The Fox

Summer grass in which I rest,
cooling in shade from labors made 
is as green as glass from a soda-pop bottle, 
its fragments that ride, washed up 
in the tide, refined in sand, undesigned 
by hand by artisans in Italy, or 
the rain in Spain. 

I'm prostrate to air perspiration drench, 
pleased as I am with the sweaty travail
of brush and pail that made something old 
seem new again.  But, please, no pictures, 
motion, or still, I'm unprepared, Mr. DeMille-- 
No close-ups for a new book cover!  

Neither friend, nor foe, nor past-tense lover 
could uncover that other who in an earlier
incarnation received this oblation: "Your mother's 
a Fox," no plain Jane mom of chocolate chip 
cookies in home room trips,but, she 
in a mini-skirt and laced-up boots.  

Sad to tell, (can't stop the bell) sound 
it will! No longer in her springtime revel, "Fox" 
no longer fits the stage when age betrays.
With graying locks and widening girth, it's clear 
she's "Gone to Earth,"  Forget false cheer, 
brush and pail don't function here.

funnylifefree verse

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