Poetry Thursday: Ode to a disappearing period

nixie tubes displaying the number 1.94

When I think
of how I cursed
my Curse
all of those times
over all of those years
when it showed up
or overstayed what relieved welcome
I managed to muster
or made its presence
a little too known
in the lower-back department,
I shake my head
at my youthful not-knowing.

The expense!
The hassle!
The blooming red shame
in light-colored shorts
thanks to ill-fitting underpants
or on someone else's mattress
in the morning
after an evening
or tick-tick-tocking
as it wicked across the inner seam
of my jeans
as I raced it home

as my visitor's visits
become infrequent,
and the pain of waiting
stretches out for-ev-er
in between,

pre-menstrual more
than it seems I was ever menstrual,
my breasts swollen,
my lower back pounding,
my waist disappearing
faster than fried chicken
at a Fourth of July picnic,
the top button of
my fat jeans straining
to rein in my matron's gut
which itself,
I could swear,
is silently crying, "Elastic...elastic...",

as I count down the back nine, 
hearing the laughs
of those just teeing off
in the distance
and the curses
of those
carving up divots
a few holes behind me,
it is all I can do
to not cluck
and shake my head
at the unknowing foolishness
that floats on the breezes
around me.

Just as well,
I think in my more lucid moments,
when one of these last few periods
finally starts
and the crying and rage
out of nowhere
subside for a bit.
Just as well,
I think, noticing the sun
starting to slip the tiniest bit lower in the sky.

Just a swell
Just as swell
Just as well...