Lady
She is a traveling circus, a late bloomer
of more gaudy god-times.
Fortune has spread her hummingbird heart
over evening moonshine.
Now she has the reminiscent whiff
of lace curtains left out in the rain.
In rented rooms she sprinkles
potent perfumes,
winks at her blur-faced mirror.
She loves to recall all her men
calls them ‘her boys’
counting each one possessively.
By mornings harsh light
she pads her bra with fairy tale romances,
considers, that in a certain light,
she appears almost younger.
Mindful of her girlish impulses,
the lady understands
that she is still a puppeteers plaything
to be snatched up and whirled off her feet.
though she is less prone now
to fits of giddy hysteria.
Her make-up is a cosmetic Slurpee.
Drunken are her hopeless hopes,
yet they have long sheltered her
from a darker despair.
Who can say if you or I
would manage any better,
when at last we topple long past the edge
of our best?
Maybe you will buy her a coffee,
listen to the manic music of her mind.
Maybe she will smile coquettishly
and grab for your hand,
and you will not pull it away.
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