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.