On my way to Kalmazoo,
I met a man just shy of twenty-two.
He looked through me and called me ma'am.
When I pushed I had no idea he never swam.
How was I to know he had never learned?
Of course when he drowned I was concerned.
But an old decript ma'am like me has no vigor or vim,
At forty-five and counting, I was too old to save him.
(C) 2016 Copyright Elena Plotkin
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Sic. (And guys, I'll give you a heads up, because a lot of you just aren't LISTENING: The woman in this situation gets to decides when she has been scorned - NOT YOU! Okay?)