Tuesday, July 12, 2011



Lydia was not known
For doing great things.
She lived in a little house
On the outskirts of a little town.

Every Wednesday,
The townspeople would greet her
As she ran her errands
At the bank and the post office.

“Good day, Lydia, lovely weather we’re having,”
They would say,
“Where does she work?”
They would think to themselves.

Every Saturday morning,
The townspeople would meet Lydia
At the farmers’ market.
Her basket full of fresh vegetables,
A pound of beef, a pound of pork
And a fine piece of cheese
From Farmer Grant.

As for the rest of the week,
The townspeople had no clue
What kept Lydia occupied
Which suited her just fine.

Lydia thought it best
That they did not know
About the married politician
That visited her twice a week.
One visit was for talking,
The other for not talking.

What would the townspeople think
Of the preacher man from
Two towns over
Who sought to find
The promise land between
Lydia’s doughy thighs.

Not to mention the three others
Who sought her unique brand of counsel
At various times of the day.
All looking for experiences
They would never find at home,
All valuing the privacy
Of Lydia’s humble abode.

Lydia was not known
For doing great things,
Only special things.

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