There’s a run
in her stocking
already, a spider
web ribbed and torn.
Her hair hangs
in mousy straggles,
a mealy nest of yarn.
She holds a roll
of fat (born,
They say, from beer)
that boils over
her waistline,
and pools
beneath her rear
They snicker
in the corner
at her affinity
for liquor,
and speculate
the current state
of her tired,
lackluster liver.
She sees this,
she hears them.
She bristles
against their caw
and sitting alone
by the punch bowl,
wraps her lips
around her straw.
This was a poem in response to a challenge:
Write a poem about December that uses the words run, boiling, ribbed, straggles, and spiderweb. Do not use the words holiday, snow, cold, tree, or winter. It must start with the word right and end with the word straw. The original draft adhered to all the requirements but as editing took its tole, I squeaked out of the mold :)
