No sooner did I see some evidence
of gentleness and sensitivity,
than she declined to filterless nonsense,
and soon resumed obnoxiousness to me.
The issue never was intelligence –
a potion mixed of acrid jealousy,
impatient pique and gossip’s pitchy tar
compounded to infect the way we are.

(Ottava Rima)

This entry was posted in Aging, Family, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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