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She was driven by a thousand desires, a few of them decent

Jill Alexander Essbaum

She was easier done than said.
She was oftener sad than sunny.
If she dealt a round of rummy,
It was simply for the gin.
And she let everyone win.

And she led everybody on.
She was on every body like hide on a hog.
Her climate a hybrid of chaos and fog.
She measured her weathers in knots and lunar spools.
And whether or not you wooed her,

She’d swoon. She mooned for the scrub
Of many tongues and manly tamps.
Lovers with archer’s arms and matador hands.
(She landed doormats and saps.)
She meant no harm. She hummed no tune.

But O, what blues she succumbed to.
And O, those fools she would run to.
Hers, a strong will, but a very weak won’t.
A cog in the wheel of every damn want.
And wherever she went she got caught,

Caught cold. She grew old, old, old.
And she groaned. And she grinded.
(Nobody minded.) The bone
Of her heart never mended its break.
Her boat sprung a leak in the lake of Too Late.

She chased what she craved. It left her winded.
Her grave was left untended.

Jill Alexander Essbaum

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