by Brad Rose
You knock at my door. Expecting the worst, I nonetheless, invite you in, and swallow hard. You are a rock n' roll princess, lunatic giddy, a catastrophe teetering under layers of laughs and neighborhood small-talk of who’s-sleeping-with-whom. I pleasantly smile at your Rolling Stones T-shirt, red lipped and tongued, while I silently admonish you to "act your age," and look for a window I might crawl out, in case things deteriorate. A once-sparkling (now worn) Barbie, Ken-less in your fifties, I can see how you arrived here; a repertoire of frantic charm, eyes like tiny baskets of light. No man could say no to you, except your seven husbands.
Brad Rose can be reached here.