Ms. America

By: Ric Ohge

“Seventy-five…Now how did that happen?” she queries the face staring out at her in the bathroom mirror.
“So, happy birthday yourself,” she adds with a nervous titter.

She recalls the times when she outran time, but is convinced time has started running over her, these days.
‘Must be global warming,’ she considers, whimsically.

She still has a trim figure and keeps her wits about her.
“No time for those with no wit,” she guffaws.

Still she always was a clothes horse
and can still “…saddle up pretty good…”
In spite of time’s sneaky little conspiracy.

“And,” she praises honestly.
“While I might have to stretch
a point to call it pretty, this face
has got a lot of respectable handsome character.”
“…From about ten feet away…” she snorts.

She applies modest make-up with practiced artistry,
along with the understated jewelry and understated confidence, she decides “…not bad
for a seventy-five year old ‘widder’ woman,”…

And with an appreciating smile at her image smiling back, she doffs a jaunty hat and announces, giggling softly,
“Guess I’ll head out and break me some hearts…”