Lola Ann

Three husbands.
Three sons.
Three grandsons.

Born in 1943, Lola Ann was always
The dutiful homemaker and wife.
She never became the free love spirit
She so yearned and wanted to be.
Now time is running out on her,
Like the pages in the notebooks
She spent her lifetime filling with poems
Spewing her childish dreams
Thoughts, feelings, and emotions.
Dreams never maturing beyond the ruminations Of a lonely teenaged girl filled with angst.
Lola Ann, oh Lola Ann.

Three husbands.
Three sons.
Three grandsons.

She surrounded herself with men.
Earning her own self worth
By constantly trying to please them.
Reflecting their aspirations and wants
Into a mosaic molded to fit her needs.
Their dreams and accomplishments
Became her misguided desires in the dark shadows of them. Lola Ann willingly gave up the womanly sacredness That was God’s precious gift to her.
She could not let herself surrender,
Breathe deep and calm her own mind.
Lola Ann, oh Lola Ann.

Three husbands.
Three sons.
Three grandsons.

The husbands are all gone now.
Two sit in urns on her mantle
And one cavorts in younger fresh pastures.
Sitting alone in her house on the hill,
She lives a fantasy life in the books she devours.
In the home that has become a prison
Due to self-indulgence and self-neglect.
There is no man or friend to catch her
When she falls and cracks her head open
On the beautiful Mexican tiles
In the kitchen she so cherished.
Lola Ann, oh Lola Ann.

Three husbands.
Three sons.
Three grandsons.

Suddenly too tired to reach for her phone
As blood pools around
Her closely cropped white hair.
Hair that once was vibrant, sleek, and black
Attracting her husbands with its mysterious lustre.
Lola Ann’s deep brown eyes are starting to fade
As the blood continues to flow
Like toxic grief from her wounds,
Emptying her veins onto the floor.
Her heart slows with regret.
She finally surrenders.
Lola Ann, oh Lola Ann.

Three husbands.
Three sons.
Three grandsons.
Lola Ann, oh Lola Ann.