I don’t remember inviting her along today,
that Prickly Rose, but everywhere I go,
she goes. I watch her pout around the kitchen
as she makes breakfast, her prickers falling
into the cereal, spines in the eggs. And she bristles
her way into the bedroom closet to
put on her clothes, daring to wear the same
outfit as I. She fusses her way to the car,
leaves a trail of bleary discontent,
then drives off in a huff, harrumphing
at beauty, at bliss. All morning, I watch her
from a distance, as far away as I can.
I tell her, “You know, you can choose
at any time to lose those thorns.”
She glares at me, like, “whatever,”
and goes back to her muttering.
“I see,” I say, giving her space.
She smells as if she burnt her eggs.
So I tease her, and make up new lyrics to.
“Miss Prickle regrets
she’s unable to smile today, Madam.”
and “The gripes are high but I’m holding on.”
I marvel at her insistence on holding
on to aggravation, frustration, annoyance,
stress. I mean, look at her now,
snarling there in the seat I’m in,
intent on her own misery. Oh Prickly Rose.
I want to hold her, but she will not
be held. So I watch her, let myself
get curious. Smile as she chooses to frown.
She’ll come around eventually, I tell myself.
Until then, I wonder at how she manages
to hold that scowl on her forehead
so furrowed, so deep, how she glowers
so impressively long.
Well, howaboutdat? There’s a Prickly Rose. I know a Prickly Eduardo, who thought he was alone in his prickliness. I’ve watched this Prickly Eduardo from both afar and upclose. Like Ms Prickly Rose, he seems determined to wallow in the high tides of gripes. And,… *sigh* …isn’t that the way they say it goes?
We’ve seen, in this poem, Merry Rose’s reactions to Prickly Rose. I’m wondering what our dearly beloved Wild Rose would think her. I’m keenly interested; but methinks I’ll watch what happens from a safe distance.
I’m wondering what’s taken so long for us to notice Prickly Rose. Surely she’s been with us for quite a while. We don’t see until we see, it seems.
“So I tease her, and make up new lyrics to.” I think Ms Prickly Rose, in her prickliness, stole the second, O, in this sentence’s last word (ie “too”).
Will we be hearing more of the trials and tribulations of Prickly Rose? She has much more to say, I’m certain.
oh! that o stealer! I think I must have changed my idea about that sentence mid-poem, actually …
by the way, do you know the songs to which I am referring? I love Miss Otis Regrets soooo much, but few people know it, I think.
xoxo
r
oh yeah, I think Wild Rose would just open the car door and throw her out. who has time for that???
I don’t know, Miss Otis Regrets, but I do know (and kinda alluded to, in my reply) Blondie’s, The Tide is High—that’s the other one, right?
And I reckon if Wild Rose didn’t throw Prickly Rose outta the car, then God surely would. (Beside, absinthe ain’t for whiners, y’know.)
I KNOW HER! But I was sure she lived in Alabama! 🤣 How intent the frown! How sure the passing of this too!
I just love this!
Thanks Rosemerry!
ha! Well, maybe she has a sister there! Thank goodness she seems to have disappeared today! xox
She has a sister named Prickly Joan who visits me more often than I’d like. 🙂
She DOES have a sister after all! well, i hope they go off to Hawaii and have fun and come back all tan and relaxed and a little more manageable!