Fall Colors

© 2007 Photos by Sue Miller

I love fall colors. I meant to put these up a while back when leaves on trees on the NMSU campus were changing colors and leaves were falling on the ground. Just had to share these (best shots).

Super Fine

My hair is a spool of thread,
fine and straight, slightly wavy
at the end. Flips in locks, knots,
tangles when wet, wraps around
my neck if it ever thickens,
grow long again, which is why
it stays short, curled on the ends,
a bob or page-boy hairdo.
Goodness, I still look like a kid
but with a Beatle cut style
except my hair is turning gray.

I hate these slender tresses
hugs my head like dainty string
follows my white balding crown
in a circular direction
like a cyclone Kathy
or a whirlpool Wanda.
My right backsides hanging flat
no matter how many times
I roll it with a dryer
I'm a lop-sided Sue with
a spool of thin strands for hair
filamentous, gossamer
silky, threadlike, as light as
cheap cheesecloth or gauze—almost.

Hot Enchiladas

My stomach is a potbellied stove,
big, fat and full, rounded out,
expansion free, not hard as steel
but soft as a balloon. If helium filled
the crannies between food and tea,
I believe I'd pop, burst into a
skinny Minnie. Instead, I wish
someone could lift me with a crane,
gently place me in a wheelbarrow,
roll me out to the car. I can't get up.
My stomach rumbles with burning
embers, flickering sparks, ravage
the sides. I grumble in misery,
pain so bad it is good, like a large
pan filled with beans, rice, lettuce,
tomato and lots of tortillas, enchilada
sauce and lots of guacamole
and hot salsa on top, guaranteed
to move me the following day.

Ripped Off

I was flabbergasted
winning fifty dollars,
and it was mine,
he made me
give him half.
After all, he paid
for the bingo cards.

Looking back, this is
the first time I
felt ripped off,
a selfish man
took from someone
with little money,
and that was all I had.
My step dad did buy the cards.

Scratch Fever

Cats live beneath my skin
irritable Pac-men
gnawing away, nibble-nibble
here, crawling itch there, driving
me crazy. I scratch with claws,
fidget, too—as if that helps—
flex and wiggle back and neck
raise the shoulders, squirmy yet
brush it 'til my hide turns raw
like inward prickles
scour with nails as srubbed by Brillo
chafe until my crust is pink,
parched and flaky. I might
as well use a cheese grater.