I am not a woman.
I am highly unpolished.
I am lonely
and so are all my far away friends
with faces buried in smart phone screens.
I am not a real housewife
of any metro designated area in the united states.
I painted a new moon sliver on the sky.
My dogs howled at the sliver all night.
No snow fell during this serenade.
I slice oranges and fill a bushel basket.
I prepare for the revolution—
the B-Side of the digital revolution
at forty-five rotations per minute.
The label is printed in italic Baskerville font.
My dogs like that literary reference.
In the news today, the fact checkers
confirmed I am not a woman.
They claimed I was over dressed
for sleeping in the nude.
I stole that line for a title
for my vanity vinyl Vega-esque LP.
That’s me pictured in a faded red union suit,
prone upon a defunct factory assembly line.
I dreamed all this year I drove out of control
by the machinations of a woman
who regularly shape-shifted into a crow
and blackened the landscape
with all of her acolytes.
If I become a woman
I want to be her.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney