New Poem: Middle Aged

Middle-aged

She was middle-aged,  which
meant she stared strapped
to a lab stool with safety goggles off,
the chemistry set she'd grown
so attached to, played with
for 40 years, seethed and bubbled
in an experiment all of its own.
Its potion churned
a perfect balance of
death and life 
in a still muddled solution.  
Enough time, enough heat,
Suddenly then a turn in color—
decisive, explosive.
And she was tethered forever
to the blast, hair blown grey and
careening with the momentum,
no struggle to break her bonds,
no new liquids, powders or gels
pipetted into the flask
could reverse the reaction.
An inevitable stirring
of life and death,
slow boiled over her Bunsen burner
would always turn to black
and exist for a shelf life—
40 more years to expiration date
when the elixir has evaporated
leaving her, an empty beaker.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.