barbara ann smith

I Forgot My Victoria's

Winds whip around the end of the house.
The sky is bruised and grumbling.
A headless chorus line hangs
on the clothesline clapping and
kicking with gusto in ruffled shirts,
blouses, pants and skirts.
Raindrops hit me as I rush
to pull clothespins from the line
they snap like breaking matches;
strange people begin to fly
through the sky like visitors
from another planet.

My robe blows above my head and
flaps like an eagle heads for water.
As I feel goose flesh from the cool
air, I wonder, did I remember to put
on my Victoria's this morning?

Oops, I didn't!

A shameface naked chicken stands
with flesh exposed to the world and
on display to the neighborhood.

I throw myself to the ground
in a vain attempt to hide my treasures.
As I roll in the grass to cover my body,
Mr. Johnson, a neighbor, offers a helping
hand with a blushing grateful grin.