The Lady Who Lives Here
by Jennifer Reeser
The lady who lives here is horribly vain.
Her mirrors are many, a mess to maintain.
She freezes, uneasy whenever they change.
The lady who lives here is strange.
She buys big sunglasses that look like bug lenses,
and bottles of cream meant for mane and tail rinses.
The lady who lives here loves fences.
She won’t cook with wheat. All she uses is rice.
She won’t keep a cat. She prefers to have mice.
She claims cats are cruel, with too-devilish eyes.
The lady here shuns the sun’s rise.
She won’t stay at parties for more than half-hours.
She really likes baths, but she always takes showers.
She turns sickly sweet, if a visitor sours.
She pretends to have deep, secret powers.
Her powders of proteins for skin, tooth and nail
she keeps in a cabinet until they go stale
with Halloween candy she’s ordered on sale.
She’s thin, with long arms, and too pale.
The lady who lives here—oh, what can be said?
She has a black teddy and hare by the bed
and a black sheep she sleeps with. She never wears red,
only rose and magenta instead.
You’d see, if you stared through her weird windowpane
over dried flies, the flowers her vases contain.
She’ll sort them and sort them, and then re-arrange.
The lady who lives here is strange.
