I Want to be an Old Woman

A Poem

I want to be an old woman,

who lives in her dancing shoes.

I want to be an old woman,

with nothing left to do.

I want to be an old woman,

with an ink well and real feather quills.

I want to be an old woman,

with no one around but you.

I want to be an old woman

and sit in a chair, outside in the sun.

I want to be an old woman,

with legs like sticks and hair like clouds.

I want to be an old woman with nothing left

to say, or see or feel.

I want to be an old woman,

falling asleep at the wheel, drooling down my cheek,

still checking my lipstick, still flirting with the man

at the market,

but more than anything

I want to be an old woman with you.

I promise to still wear cute, little pencil skirts

with my twiggy legs and lips painted for

your afternoon kiss.

I want to be,

your old woman.

Not because I love you

Not because you care

Not because your the greatest person I know

Not because you wink

Or see what I see, but because you give me

all the flowers in the garden.

All the blue vases at the yard sales are mine.

You let me keep all the seashells.

You never swore at me or made fun of how much, how often or how deeply I pray.

If I could be one of the few,

to still cook for you.

Walk next to you in the sun,

Kiss you good afternoon.

Get your slippers.

Then I would be an old woman,

With a happy amount of things to do.