Wet weather days —
Rain slugs the window.
The cat clings like glad wrap.
Always resourceful -
I cash in on claustrophobia.
Turn to literary pretensions.
I read, Tolstoy - Ibsen - Maupassant.
I decline —
invitations to tea parties.
Slam the door on the Mormons.
The cat's got smaller.
The telephone's shrunk.
And I speak in a queer dialect.
My family do not understand me.
No matter, I tell the mirror,
Surely, we're more intellectual?
My brows have lifted.
I've acquired a melancholy look.
And become quite comely.

Now, what sorts the chaff from the wheat?

© Jenny Barnard