She looks like a Barbie Doll
with her painted face and nails,
synthetic breasts rising
under her pink T-shirt,
long lean legs in Levis,
small feet in slingback stiletto sandals.
From a red Cardinals Baseball cap,
her hair, once golden, now silver,
falls like a blanket over her shoulders.
Navajo bracelets jangle
on both wrists as she carries
the electric guitar and microphone
for the Kenny Rogers lookalike
she has followed cross country
for a quarter of a century.
Her face is a roadmap of where
they’ve been since she left
her children behind with their father
in the trailer park eating pizza
and drinking coca cola
and watching a Braves game,
but the past is about to catch up
as their adult faces shine
in the audience like a neon sign.
Sharon Waller Knutson is a retired journalist whose poems have appeared recently in Verse-Virtual, Your Daily Poem, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Five-Two and The Song Is… Her first full-length book collection, What the Clairvoyant Doesn’t Tell You, will be published by Kelsay Books in October.
LOVE this poem, Sharon. I can see this woman so clearly, and the build up to the powerful conclusion is building from the first line; kind of a her own private avalanche from years of neglect and selfish choices where her family is concerned. Brava!
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