When I Am An Old Woman

When I am an old woman

I shall wear my pajamas until 4pm with platform boots and a bandana from the Galapagos on my head to keep weeds from flying into my hair when I use the string trimmer far too late in the early evening for my neighbors’ taste,

And I shall spend whatever is left of my 401k after the next bubble bursts,

on wine and vet bills for stray animals

And additional passport pages,

and say I have no money for butter

Because I’m vegan

And butter is gross.

I shall lie down on my yoga mat when I am tired,

And gobble up samples in Costco

And sound the gong from Nepenthe hanging over the fireplace to drive my more neurotic dog totally crazy, and play piano for the one who howls with joy regardless of my aptitude.

I shall hold my protest signs high at every public march in the Resistance,

And make up for my youth, when I took the Constitution for granted and only half knew what it meant to not give a shit about other’s opinions of my choices.

I shall go out in flip flops in the rain and plant a veggie garden for my neighborhood,

And spend too much time on social media fighting neocons

And stealing poems.

You can wear stupid red baseball caps and grow more fat,

And eat three pounds of dead animals at a go,

Or only mayonnaise or beautiful chocolate cake on which all the waiters in the kitchen doubtless spit twice, for a week,

And hoard sexist, xenophobic notions in your clogged, fragile arteries.

But I must have kombucha and companions that keep me feeling fabulous,

I’m tired of paying dues and not swearing in the street especially when it’s really warranted,

To set a good example for the children.

So I will have friends to dinner and we will compose lewd refrigerator magnet haikus and read them aloud.

No need to practise a little now.

People who know me could never be shocked or surprised, by anything I do anymore.

When suddenly I am old,

Purple will be the most normal damn thing about me.