The White Blouse

My mother loved white blouses. She thought every girl
should wear one. I hated the stiff cotton
and the no color. Even at ten
I knew that white was doing me no good;
and then the thing would unstuff itself
from the waistband of my skirt, and I’d spend hours
wrestling with it, knowing I was good,
a good girl in a white blouse,
my mother’s idea of good. After school
I smoked and drank just like her.
I wanted so much to be an adult,
and I was good at it in my white blouse.
© 2010 Nellie Hill. All rights reserved
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