When I am an old woman,
I shall not wear purple.
I shall not wear anything at all!
I shall join a nudist colony
in the south of France and
stun sixty years worth of
friends and members at the
Holy Hallelujah Temple of Temperance
with my broad-minded acceptance
of my broad-beamed lovable self
and my amazing recovery from
a lifetime of latex dependency.
Or
I shall follow the example of
Miss Lillian and perambulate
with the Peace Corps into the wilds
of some unknown, undomesticated country
where my octogenarian expertise with
words and wood and mascara wands
will imbue untold numbers of natives
with the gifts of literature, ladders,
and longer lashes.
Or
I shall purchase a pavillion
near Walden Pond
and open a restaurant
for starving artistes.
The walls will be covered with
register tape sonnets and
luncheon napkin sketches
and I'll serve homemade soups
and play beach music and Bach
until dawn.
But
whatever I choose to do
in my final days,
I shall not wear purple,
and I shall absolutely not
go quietly into that last
good night.


From She of the Rib (CRM Books, 2006).
Used with the author's permission.