Slender Joan was very slim;
she spent her spare time down the gym.
She wriggled here and strutted there,
and tossed about her glossy hair.
At forty, she was looking great;
the sort of woman, women hate.
The men, they gawped and gaped and sighed.
“It’s Joanie! Over here!” they cried.
Eyes-a-flutter, sparkling teeth.
Who cares what’s hidden underneath?
The figure-hugging latest craze
had men admiring in a daze.
The years went by and still she squeezed
into the clothes designed for teens.
Deep wrinkles ploughed across her face;
the make-up pooled in thick disgrace.
Her heels were high, she tottered on;
men hid when Joanie tripped along.
Her hair was dull and roots were grey.
‘Oh Joan,’ they sneered. ‘You’ve had your day.’
Red lipstick startled, leaking far
as Joan propped up the well-worn bar.
She tried to pout and make a pass
but age was catching up too fast.
The men who once had swarmed around,
not one of them was to be found.
So Joan’s alone, in quite a state,
still hoping to attract a mate.
And women who all dress quite fine
in glamour that befits their time,
they pity Joan, who thinks they’re drab
and wouldn’t swap the life they have.
“I’ll sit, I’ll flirt, I’ll dress to thrill,
you’ll find me here at ninety still.
No knitting, cat, nor crossword sham
can satisfy the Joan I am.”
“I do not care what others say.
I’m happy as I am this way.
I’ve lived my live to fullest wealth,
whilst you stagnate upon your shelf.”
And so sits Joan, all hunched and old
with mini skirt of red and gold.
She doesn’t care. She thinks she’s best:
still waiting for her next conquest.
© Nicky Clifford, 2016