I noticed three servings <br />yesterday at the local café - <br />sixty something retirees <br />nibbling on entrees <br />of empty, idle chatter. <br /> <br />The first (the bossy one) <br />wore a generous head of hair <br />(or was it a wig?) <br />Bootlace brown and brazenly ‘bouffant’, <br />it failed somehow to compliment <br />the loud and overcooked face <br />that scowled beneath it. <br /> <br />The second had ‘done’ hers herself. <br />A Decore ‘natural’ blond <br />trying (unsuccessfully I fear) <br />to mask the pale pink pate <br />that peeped from between <br />a stand of meagre stalks. <br /> <br />The third was ‘tipped’ <br />(a suburban salon for sure) <br />in red and Munroe blond. <br />Her foundation, applied <br />generously and myopically, <br />served only to emphasize <br />the murder of ‘crows feet’ <br />that ravaged her face. <br /> <br />Their ‘other halves’ <br />were balding, bespectacled and paunchy. <br />They didn’t say much - <br />Out voiced it would seem <br />by the generous servings <br />of mutton dressed as lamb <br />bleating beside them.<br /><br />Alison Cassidy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mutton-dressed-as-lamb/
