Two Poems by Patricia O. Simmons

July 19, 1999

She fought… she clamored, gasping
‘till the end.
She would not die.
Her little piece of lung
strove to support her.
They drained her chest,
once, twice & thrice in vain.
She begged for more,
more draining, but the pain
went on.

And then she closed the bluest
of blue eyes,
and waited for the tiny piece of lung
to stop its work
and give her the release.

I held her lovely fingers
in my stubby, healthy hand
and counted every breath
until the last.



Which modicum of me annoys you most,
my looks, the way my hair parts
and reveals old scalp?
Or is there something in my voice that grates,
a nasal sound, a witless giggle?
If I were you, I would detest the most
my chattering,
my endless perpetuity of talk.
Or maybe my opinions would destroy
all hope of likability in me.
My taste in clothes is awful
you admit?
And strangers have protested my perfume.
My politics are surely not convincing.
I undulate and often lack conviction.
I have been called a pedant more than once,
and only once some cretin called me dumb.
One husband said I made him sick
but never bored him.
Or did Cole Porter say that?
Anyway, just tell me what you think,
and then lets talk no more of me.

Patricia O. Simmons