Chameleon
Years of worshipping the Sun God are
changing me: the beach baby I was is no
more. Sun whisperer says, Get Ready. Clear
your mind. Be one of a kind. Each day
he takes his marker out and claims more
and more territory, and I become deciduous,
more like indigenous: the Cigar Store
Indian, the turbaned lady on a cardboard
box-- not like strips from sugarcane stalks
my father brought home from mountain
trips, but the plump blueberries he made
into pies, or the wild blackberries like miniature
hives meandering the sand hills beyond our
house. Resistance to change is the end,
they say. So I bend, I bend...
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
