rook’s quarry

Even on the train she didn’t miss a trick
 like a rook on patrol for fantasy tidbits
 she sat upright, neck elongated
 flicking left, whooshing right.
 The slightest movement alerted her eyes
 and she honed in on the offending persona
 Not one person was beneath her contempt:
 high spirited children, to her   unruly
 languages other than her own,
 others of differing abilities       teenagers
 women in loud clothes with heavy make-up,
 men in groups clutching each other in raucous laughter.
 Her husband huddled in a rounded heap
 waiting to spring to attention at the harridan’s whim
 years of nagging    third party abuse
 lends him immune to her innocent quarries
 Later that year    she lay dying
 Turning to him she said
 “I spent my entire life as the norm
 to which all should conform;
 eating should involve a knife and fork
 skirt lengths below knee but not too far
 maybe it would’ve turned out different”
 and her last breath said “If you'd organza'd me.”
 Her pecked man left knowing it was all his fault.