Nina’s Sinnerman
is not the same
as mine
My Sinnerwoman
smiles when she’s caught
in the rain,
she’s enjoying
every sensual thought
her feet slap the Earth
back to its beginning,
and the air whips
through her sweaty hands
running
up the wall of a hill
the mockingbirds
cheer for Sinnerwoman
halfway to the top
an albino deer
spots the saint in her
when they meet
eye-to-eye
on the curve
of the disheveled trail
A plastic bag
dances, pirouettes,
in the middle of the street
more graceful than the trees
in their steadier sway
Sinnerwoman growls
“damn lazy littering
bastards!”
balls it up in her fist
to bring back home
“Oh Sinnerman,
where you going to run to?”
Home
I’m always running home
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