Big Girls Can Handle Absence

We grow old, we grow old, we do what
we're told. We grow old, we grow old

in the mean belly of fashion & flash
backed arched in contemporary curves

singular as Mt. Olympus, generous
as the mirror of our desire, enjoying

electric current divine, mood indigo
an age of grand jubilation like Oprah’s

white-tie gala of moist hot tongues
praising, devoted, touching like fingers

I see Condi in desert helmet with troops
Colin languishes with stars on marquees

fashion covers, glossy magazines
America loves black success stories

we grow old, we grow old, we do what
we are told catching kisses on rose bud

lips, trembling, reckless in mid-air