Foxgloves Poem by Gordon R Menzies

She found them cast off in a meadow, each
a black stretch of shadow left in the brome
knelt and considered their long narrow length
pulled them on slowly, unthinking, like silk
and in a moment she'd drunk the vixen's wine

She left the meadow and went to the dark city
she was wearing a dress and showing her legs
but she didn't remember putting it on at all
not remembering being a woman's common lie
both common in frequency, as well as in class

The men, this time, were not looking at her legs
all they saw then were her black silken hands
the gloves moved like thieves with opportunity
so she touched a man, and he fell in the street
she stepped over him lightly, and carried on

Back in the meadow the vixen came sniffing
and found God sitting with his arms crossed
did she not have enough power already, He said
without need of thieving the gloves as well?
the vixen hung her head at her carelessness

In the city the woman was growing weary now
tiring of the men falling left and right
I never really wanted them, she lied aloud
I only ever wanted to be wanted, and
she pulled her lipstick off in a bloody smear
and threw the black gloves in the gutter