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March 31--Damien Hurst for Manolo Blahnik, Dot Boot. Jaye lay under the foyer table far enough under that no one noticed her there. She was sure Luis their houseman knew she was there because he'd bent down and slid a plate with her favorite chicken empanadas and pear & brie tartlets on it. His other hand delivered a frosty goblet filled with Coca-Cola, a forbidden treat. If Marjorie (in any other house she'd have been "Mom") knew that Jaye was drinking a Coke, and a Mexican Coke "with all that sugar" to boot, she'd have thrown a fit. Not that anyone else would have known it. Marjorie had the ability to be raging in anger on the inside while appearing totally serene on the outside. Only Jaye--and Luis-- saw the cold gleam of rage glint in her blue eyes. Jaye was supposed to be on a play date with Lucinda Miller in the pool house but Lucinda wasn't interesing in doing anything but reading her book or scribbling her notebook. Jaye had wandered away from the dead-silent pool house, sneaked into the main house by the library doors, and slid under the table to pick up the news of the newly divorced, dumped, or lifted. The amount of time Marjorie and her taut and shiny friends spent talking about themselves gave Jaye a headache and made her promise herself that she'd find something to do with her life that didn't involve divorce lawyers or plastic surgeons.
Lookee! Two whole notebook pages (wide ruled) without one "I feel asleep in the middle of it" scribble. Tonight begins a month of poems. April is Poetry Month, so I'm celebrating by writing 30 days of probably bad poetry. And lucky you, you're going to be the victim..um.. target... no, recipient of it. Try not to weep. With joy, I mean, with joy. You can poem along too. Here are some prompts to get you started. On your mark, get set, GO!
--Barbara
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