I’m No Soccer Mom
I’ve never had any trouble
envisioning myself
as a freaky little flapper
beaded blue dress swaying
and tinkling with each step
holding out a hand for a cup
of strong bathtub gin
maybe doing the Charleston
with a suited slick-haired
male counterpart
I can see myself
as a depression era
farm wife
thin cotton dress
the breeze cutting through
as I stand in the front doorway
rubbing my chapped hands together
sighing as my overalled husband
comes up the front walk all
dirty and dignified
I know I would have made
an excellent Rosie the Riveter
dancing alone
across the braided rag rug
in the living room
to Glenn Miller or Tommy Dorsey
in loafers and a peasant dress
tears streaming down my face
waiting for my Soldier
to finally come home
from overseas
I can see
a clear picture of me
as a June Cleaver carbon copy
pearls, apron and
a holier-than-thou attitude
baking bread for
a huge Sunday dinner
served on Wednesday
listening politely
to my Ward
talk about the office
So I wonder why I cannot see myself
as a part of my own generation