When I'm sixty-four continued

from Wendy
Some feminist friends - nearing sixty-four - are renewing themselves, not as recycled teenagers but as passionate wolf-like women. I wrote a poem about this kind of woman - and it's not me!


An unposted letter

Ferally ferally will I live now
without a tea-cup under the bough.
I’m tired of life as Monopoly,
making club sandwiches without crusts,
taking care of latte words.
I want to suck straight from the bottle,
dance to whirling Dervishes,
cause a traffic jam by my textured clothes
that include an underwear overlay.
Let me eat lashings of mudcake
stuffed with macadamia nuts,
let the dribbles go down my chin.
I will sing agitato,
drowning out the church choir,
raise my arms joyfully
energised by the Gaia spirit.
Let them be astonished by the change
from suburban Susan to feral Felicia,
as a compliant sheep melds into
a she-wolf with bright teeth.