Twisted tales of husbands and hullaballoos,
these ladies speak with swift, pink tongues,
and Saturday being no less hot, the rain
so welcome their skin almost smiles
not so rigid and days so valuable,
their words drip slowly and softly down
to form a pool where all might drink,
a handsome reward for years of thirst,
they purge themselves and laugh like fire,
a single hand raised against
all those who might read lips.

Poetry Magazine