The Spinster’s Almanac

You're never far away from me
I've had this lock of your hair now for a half a century or more
I keep it in a matchbox in the pocket of my coat

Saturdays I go to town just to make them laugh
I learned to drive when I was 65 years old
And I sit poker-straight behind the wheel
Mother died of influenza when we kids were small
Father never smiled again and seemed to shrink with every passing year

Everybody sigh and put your hands on your hips
But when I get those old songs in my head
I can't keep my fingers off the keys

Through my research I have found all it takes
To keep the chickens laying eggs
Is opera or Gershwin played at low volumes on dad's old radio
One concession for the hens destined for slaughter:
I read them poetry
They like the Yeats the best
And frankly, so do I

Who wouldn't like to wake up on the Isle of Innisfree
To muck about that bee-loud glade like he?

Everybody sigh and put your hands on your hips
What's good enough for chickens is plenty good enough for you and me

You're never far away from me
I've had this lock of your hair now for a half a century or more
I keep it in a matchbox in the pocket of my coat