Old Lady Sweeping Snow
 
I’m the old lady sweeping her stoop
in her old lady coat, old lady boots,
chasing the snow with her old lady broom.
 
Swish, brush, swish, brush —
the pendulum rasps a life of its own.
I hold on tight with my old lady claws.
 
My teeny-bop neighbor looks on with a smirk
as I stagger and sway and stir up the snow
with old lady zeal and an old lady groan.
 
Daft witch. She snips as if I can’t hear.
Old lady. Heart attack waiting to happen.
Her teeny-bop digs whirr through the air
 
and land with a thud in my old lady gut,
and I shake off the old lady missing her man
to attend to the teeny-bop insults at hand.
 
A hiss, crooked wave, a spit how are you, dear?
She rolls her lined eyes, and sashays inside,
deftly sidestepping my old lady spite
 
as I scour the ground with my old lady eyes
for some scraps—wool of bat, eye of newt—
to brew potions with power to ruck her young ass.

Mary Beth Hines 

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Mary Beth Hines would be pleased to hear them.