The Sybil of Seventh Ave.

A shaggy hag in baggy rags
with violet-tinted hair
wears seven sweaters, rubber boots
and worn-out underwear.

Her sequinned hat has frayed a bit,
her stocking has a tear,
but if she knew I looked at them
I doubt that she would care.

She mumbles secrets, lost in thoughts
she spins out of the air,
and though I think she's sort of strange,
someday I may be there.

Karen Tellefsen
kat2@mindspring.com


Next poem, Battered Sleep .
Return to my Home Page.