Being a woman of a certain age
frees me from societal expectations
and domestic obligations —
to cohabit instead of wed,
even if the world thinks I’m a hussy,
enjoying passionate sex in the middle of a day
like a harlot aided by Viagra,
To be free from the confines of a job
and blatantly ignorant supervisors,
released like a freed convict
without parole
with a stipend for basic needs,
To peruse trashy novels or erudite tomes,
unrestricted by the literary police
and narcissistic reviewers
who littered my mind with
pretentious vocabulary,
like zealots speaking in tongues,
To clean house when the urge strikes
seldom as that may be,
ignoring white gloved critics
and dictatorial relatives
monitoring my skills
like the domestic Gestapo
pouncing on dust bunnies and streaked mirrors,
Meddlers,
the lot of them
all dead and buried now
covered in
dirt
My final revenge
Sutera began her career as a psychiatric nurse, morphed into tax preparation, and ended in the legal and international departments of a health and beauty aid company. She belongs to several writing groups in Princeton and lives in Hamilton.
