GEORGE SAND, ADDRESSING HER
MIND, AT 50

       Brain, old pensioner,

for years of loyal and fretful service,

       what honorarium will do?

           A silver watch

     to tell minute vistas by,

while 60 cogs a minute

       leave you, winded, to your slackening

               haste?

       A pen seeping bile

           from its whale-black innards?

You, who never dressed before noon!

           I find you out

       early: doing sums, mending fences,

knitting yarns. Here,

       let me clink my fork

           against the glass,

     rise to the occasion,

       my shabby matron, my old grass-gypsy,

     and swear, though you lie

     in comic disarray,

           pilled and pickled in your juices,

       your skirts frayed and gussetted,

           that you once ploughed furrows

     straight as statutes,

            once, with your pack of hunting dogs,

       ran deep into far sloughy fields

to snare game,

           once hooted fashion,

       once tupped and raved,

once cheered, fueled, dabbled, quaffed,

tracked down, bled, bouqueted, and wallowed

               in ideas,

       covering their waterfront

           like a sailor’s whore, who,

sleeping with all, belonged to none.