At sixty, I’ll no more serve,
I’ll wear loud make-up
Simper and hurl abuse
Abandoning
The tried tactics to diffuse.
I got what I deserved
I didn’t dare – so was doused
In an austere way was housed.
Always paid for my board and lodging
Happiness kept on dodging.
At sixty I’ll snatch –
I’ll be an eyesore, a thorn.
The wall flower will hiss
A person to reckon with
Nobody will ignore or miss.
No more I’ll have to be a role model
To my daughter – a relief
She is fighting her own battle.
I wish I could be a snake –
It can hold its venom.
The poison I’ve culled
Out of endless chores
Tears at me.
About the author: Describing herself as a scribbler, Kiran Jhamb writes only about things that disturb her, or fascinate her or amuse her – in short things that she feels strongly about. For her writing is an exploration.
