The older poetess

i scratch the back of my hand
its an older hand..
lost its plumpness to new wrinkles
these hands belong to someone elese
my mother perhaps..
with chipping polish..
i turn my head away from my own skin in disbelief.

i am sitting in a coffee bar,
warmed by the pressence of old friends
more than with coffee i sip
a red ribbon pulls my hair away from my face
a gesture i carry with a memory of a girl
i once knew in polka dots
and maryjanes

i feel age creeping into me.
at this moment..i remember the first time
i heard a friend recite.
today i dont need to see his face
to know it's reactions.
his emotion is mine
as i sip and sip

how fortunate am i.
to have lived so fully in the pressence
of such love,
such creativity
and self honor.

I have loved and lost and have always
had my seat here
at a local open mic.
where the mc calls me 'a legend'
and i turn the color of my hair bow once again.
i make my way to the mic.

once this was more than a ritual
it was a need and a desire to
belong.
now..it's sharing..
it's knowing.
it just is.

someone once told me
not to forsake the tiny voices
that call my name.

for once..i won't