Seventy Five

She dances lightly treads, her knife warm as toast, when the oil is spread, for all she's ever been, and also what she's known, it brings a sense of ease, her daily bread, gathered all alone, doesn't make her bend, she's in love with schemes, her skin golden brown, always on the street, with lipstick instead, not caring for loans, she lights up my bed, always visits the sea, the waves make her frown, at this old has been, her visions are myriad, with a light that's shown, paints what she's dreamt, her artist heart unknown.