She’s an old girl,
feather ruffled with echoes
of every show that haunts her stage.
The march to modern tagged her eyesore,
but she held the historical ace close
to her breast, and winked her glass paned eyes
when the wrecking ball played its losing hand.
When the 1920’s danced its way to the bottom,
she was wearing crystal sparkles and singing
tomorrow will rise from the speculation of hell.
Youth likes to rattle its dimes to put age in its place,
but the Aztec is a San Antonio Rose in the swamp sprawl of condos
proving money can’t buy what seasoned grace can deliver.
©Susie Clevenger 2020
The Sunday Muse #108