Sadie sports an hysterical kind of grace.
She welcomes nearly anyone into her life
even if they are “iffy,” sad,
or enchanted by a witch with a wart on her thumb.
She watches shoulders and long hair blowing,
tears and fingers blue-ly cold.
She stares into kisses and ignores a curled lip.
Sadie says she is scared to be growing old.
She hates the way her times of day are marked out
by Prozac, Cozaar, Hydrocodone, Prevacid,
and an afternoon cocktail. (A different drink on a different day…
Yesterday she had a glass of “Cookie Butter” liqueur.)
Sadie brought a young woman to my house.
The woman was so thin, her shoulder blades
were balsa wood wings.
Sadie said, “This is my cousin.”
Since she calls many people cousin,
I knew this was probably untrue.
As I cleared away the crackers and wine glasses,
the woman stood up, told Sadie she had to go.
She thanked me and put her hand out to Sadie
who put a 20-dollar bill on her palm.
We both watched her leave.
A long silence rocked back and forth between us.
Sadie giggled: “That was weird, wasn’t it?
