“Sylvia”


“Sylvia”

With wind upon each page, her ink dries quick
and with a churlish lip, she wrote her book.
Behind her gleamed a road of yellow brick
that shone with choice of words she aptly took.

Another poet found, she sampled life
but dirty dishes, kids are small cartoons.
Withstanding disappointment, she’s a sight
as Ted has left for woman or saloon.

Such sadness when the madness did arrive.
And, sadder still,  when choices made are clear.
His pudgy, fat balloons resound and cry.
His mother’s voice no longer will he hear.

Her story older than that pot of gold
she won but was too blind or sick to hold.