Overcured Henna

After a few hours

It’s no good they say.

I believe them — but life

Gets in the way.

The mixture had waited

For a day and a night

While I hurried and toiled

With my limited might.

I applied it because

I abhor any waste,

And my hands became stained

With some runaway paste.

Carrot orange — bold,

Sassy and bright,

My most sought after hair color,

What a delight!

The result was amazing,

The hair looks just right —

And the story has one

Metaphorical side.

I am past age of love —

Overdue, ‘overcured’...

Can I get extra time

For the hell I endured?

Other women had fun

But I labored instead,

Of their joys I had none —

Overworked living dead.

I fought hard for the comfort

I couldn’t afford:

Without money — no dignity,

And life is short.

I’m still poor by the standards

Of this day and age:

No career, no status,

No book prints, no stage.

Like that henna, neglected

For days in its bowl,

I am being rejected

By most, if not all.

Hard to tell how much time

I still have... gruesome test.

But what’s forever mine

Is that bright-orange zest.

Being scoffed and profaned

Is one ugly nightmare,

But the beauty retained

Is still here to share.

December 14, 2020

N.B.