To me. more adoration was obscene

A friend wished to insult me with her words
She was angry that I seemed to draw in men
You Siren, she exclaimed, in tones absurd
I stared astonished, feeling puzzled then

I wore  thick glasses, carried my old books
Read Birkhoff and McLean and Wittgenstein
To me, it was no insult to my looks
It was a compliment, not word malign

And I was married to a gentle man
Had never noticed what she’d claimed to see.
My evenings were spent boiling meat in pans
To me.  more  adoration was obscene

Now I grow old and see my hair go thin
I marvel at the label, you Siren!


About Kate Thwaite

I love writing , conversation, art, wild flowers, music and air.And books
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