A Souper Friend

I crawl into a cave called myself. It’s dry and dusty, cobwebbed. So afraid to be, alone in the dark, “Who am I,” is my cry. Then Trixie’s best friend comes along,* like a cowgirl set out on a romantic adventure. This changeling becomes a pirate or a faerie tale...mingling with the deer and frogs. but not too sweet, ‘cause she’s a spark plug. She squeezes out a saturated rag of tears and snot, for this cowgirl spots the forgotten one - a little child who needs a hug, and she has a way of embracing the child in me. ...and her poetry like taffy pulls, twists in a delicious way, half-cocked. I’ve learned from her to grab the stars and fly as if Tinkerbell dusted me with rare pastels. In my mind we’re dressed in kicka$$ gowns and fascinators merrily sipping sherry in the garden of Make-Believe. And by the way, I love my souper friends. Don’t feel left out. So many touch me in so many ways. God bless you all. And one last shout out to Caren Krutsinger!