Her Life As a Poem
She was big-boned. Her spirit
a fine-spun sprouting of prairie brome
threaded through moss and engine block.
Her home was a pine and beatboard camp
for wayward cats.
She would discourse from her tangled porch
where poems grew in small pots
muddled with Ramen noodle and Maui Wowie.
Her life often vacationed to a studio apartment
on the east bank of her right eye.
She wrote on the back of her mouth
with cigarette smoke.
Her poems were the rain-filled footprints,
of Jack Kerouac.
She had pronouns before and after her name.
She wore a local fame, made legendary
by the gaps in her thoughts,
thoughts she shrewdly refused to fill in.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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