I wonder if menopause has come at last,
a parody of the Grim Reaper:
a crone with frizzy hair and an overstuffed purse
packed with tissues, fig newtons,
hairspray, a hanky, breath mints.
Like sex parodies life,
her interpretive dance bodes ill
for the future when lust blooms again
and all the buff studs will shun me.
Keep calm and stay away,
I hear her say. And he does.
