Margaret Fishback

I wish my frank and open face Held just one tiny little trace Of something that approaches guile. I'd like an enigmatic smile And heavy-lidded eyes instead Of just a regulation head.

The problems of a working girl Are more than meet the naked eye; And life becomes a dizzy whirl At times—and dizzy, too, am I. I have not found the answer yet, And this is just a working plan: I shove along and do not fret, Nor yet depend on any man. To be a mother and a wife, I'm often urged by all my kith And kin—but as for husbands, life Is easier without than with.

Bear in mind, my little man: Never let your verses scan. And acceptance will be sparse If, by any chance, they parse. But whatever else you do, Let it not be said of you That your poetry makes sense!. . . . That’s a criminal offense!

Sometimes I wish that I were dead As dead can be, but then again At times when I've been nicely fed On caviar or guinea hen And I am wearing something new And reassuring, I decide It might be better to eschew My tendency to cyanide.

Unfortunately happiness Depends a little more than less On undependable, and hence Absurdly charming elements.

When in the dumps, I hate the things That ordinarily I love. I loathe the lark that blindly sings; I hate the bland, blue sky above. The crocus, sneering on the lawn, Forsythia about to bloom— I'd like to see them dead and gone, Instead of filling life with gloom. But most of all, I do not care, While I am droning in my hive, To hear vivacious chums declare How great it is to be alive.

The Twenty-fifth is imminent And every known expedient Designed for making Christmas pay Is getting swiftly under way. Observe the people swarming to And fro, somnambulating through The stores in search of ties and shirts And gloves to give until it hurts. They're eyeing gifts in Saks' and Hearn's And Macy's, not to mention Stern's, While earnest copywriters are Hitching their copy to the star Of Bethlehem quite shamelessly, For they are duty bound to see That Peace On Earth Good Will To Men Gets adequate results again.

This is a day when I covered no ground. Just pushed and shuffled my papers around, Nudged at letters and winced at bills, Sorting them out into different hills, Hunted fretfully for a ruler, Worried the overworked water cooler, Sharpened pencils and filled my pen, Then shuffled my papers around again.

When life seems gray And short of fizz It seems that way Because it is.