A Fall Stroll

Today was
fairly ordinary,
except for
those fifteen,
maybe less—
perhaps ten
minutes where
you walked
with me.

It was
one of
those fall
days that
are given
scarcely, thus
cherished deeply--
A cornucopia
of colors,

thick with
left-over summer
heat and
dashes of
physical yearning—
at least
on my
part, I’m
most sure.

Though your
steps were
larger, and
quicker than
mine. I
kept pace
to be
near. And
so nice—

it was
when my
hand grazed
yours— I
will always
wonder if
you felt
it also.
And then—

you bought
me a
cup of
coffee, black,
our commonality,
and we
quickly strolled
back, passing
a Labrador.

Not much
else was
said, and
we parted,
not even
mentioning goodbye.
If only
I could
mutter more.

I Wish

She said, Don't push yourself, you'll give yourself a heart attack. And, without thinking, I just said I wish I could be put out of this misery. I've never done that before. It's sort of jarring in all respects, when you don't think about thinking about dying, and just do. So that afternoon I laid out flat on the last cool concrete step of my mother's backyard. My stiffly straight self gazing glaze-eyed at the sultry maroon leaves of the once flowering pear trees. They were swaying in the warm fall breeze, almost as if dancing shyly to the rhythm of the earth. And I thought how lovely it was that the surroundings were able to bring out the blueness of the sky. I like it when things turn out like that, just--naturally.

I'm Not Sorry

I’m Not Sorry

You spoke
of your love
for me
to everyone
but me—
Unless it was
late at night
and you were
drunk off
of your ass
and lonely.

I didn’t believe
you then
and still don’t.
Fuck—
I even heard
from a little bird
that if I hadn’t
been this
uninterested,
you wouldn’t have
lasted
this long.

That’s not love—
not even remotely
close to what it means
to love
another
human being.
Unfortunately
the mystery behind
a made-up word
such as love,
representing
another’s feelings,
Is quite
subjective.

Acknowledge
and move on
from the digression
that was our
so-called relationship
in this snippet of both
our lives.

The chase was
the focal point
for your yearnings.
For I
always
have run,
always will
run
at least
away from
you.
Sorry,
but you said
you knew me.
You
knew
it would
end up
like this.

Company Can be Found

Sit
alone
together,
any place
will do
just fine.
And listen.
And let it ripple
to your very core.
And yearn
for hand
to brush
against
hand.
Pretending
that
numb
hasn’t crossed
the mind,
the tongue
yet.

And sitting
still
is no longer
an option
because
it’s cold inside.
Shake,
to reintroduce
blood flow
and flush
cheeks.

Keep listening
and mouthing
each word,
tapping to
each beat.
The connection
with another
can be made
with such ease.

So don’t despair.
Say it to yourself,
uplift yourself,
don’t despair
tonight or any
other night.

Learn
to make
music
out of
life's
instruments.

Recipe for a Long Lost Love

Recipe for a Long Lost Love

Soil
from the ground.
Spoon into
Happy father’s day
Mug.
Half
a spoonful
means it’s
less
acidic.
It’s always
nice
when things
go down
easy.
A touch
of crystallized
carbohydrates,
to cut that
free form oil
that nauseates me
with a single glance.
Glops of
fatty cow product
make for a smoother
texture,
so that when I
close my eyes
it’s
almost the same.

Wrestling

Wrestling

Those hands—
that my hands
came from
were put
over my mouth,
and so for a
fleeting moment
I got louder,
more crass,
more honest—
for a moment.

Chalk it all up to
feeling blue that day,
or stress about my future.
Pussy, passive excuses,
because the truth?
Well we don’t use
that
in
my
family.
We pacify situations.
We tip-toe the lines of
actuality with great skill
like a high-wire artist
in a traveling circus.
We put our jazz hands up
in front of our chests and shake
No to confrontation.
There is always a stage,
always an act,
a smile to fake.
Small talk
to feign interest.
I fucking hate
that about my family’s
silent but known
rules of life.
The real conundrum
is that if I told each,
what I thought,
would they leave me?
Most likely.
So do I go
for it?
Go it resenting
my blood?
Or, do I
just go?

Vulnerability is Vile

1.Salmon.
It’s a fine
fatty varietal
of fish.
My pick
of choices
for dinner,
maybe
occasionally.
You all
are having
salmon tonight.
I am—
but not
with
you lot.
The single piece
I will enjoy tonight
needs no side dish
as a compliment—
scrumptious.

2. Have you ever noticed, when you lie in bed at night, and your mind begins to crank and spin ideas outside of your control that your arms subconsciously wrap nearer to your heart and your waist? And all that’s left, is the jarring sensation –the chasm is getting bigger.

3. I
can’t
remember
the
particular
jump-off
point.
But
I
literally,
ashamedly,
can’t
bear
Silence
anymore.
Please--
just
make
noise--
any
noise
will
do.

Little

Little white houses
with little red roofs
in little towns.
I am little,
the gypsy-man musician
is little,
the exhausted new mother
pushing her child in a stroller
is little,
but collectively
how grandiose
may our force
become?

Don't Love

Don’t love me.
Don’t say
you do.
Please—
Don’t
love
me.
Life is
unnervingly
short
and I will
most likely
leave you.
My own
mortality
knocking
harder and harder
at my door,
shouting--
pestering me
to keep living faster
to keep moving forward
to keep the past, past.
I can’t
breathe
steady,
because it inevitably
means
I’ve stayed
in one place
too long.

Life should keep you
out of breath
as long
as your lungs can
possibly withstand—
otherwise
you become a shell,
lacking
that out of body
entity for which
I cannot fully explain
with words—
But I sense it—
I sense it
there.

I feel the
separation
of my self,
the separation
many a night
and day,
and
I often wonder
if others
notice the
difference
the way I myself
have come to.

Who is the body
I was born within?
Does she fit the
mind I have?
Can they work
in a simpatico
sort of fashion?

The constant
questions
I fear will only
become solved
when that good
old mortality
stops knocking,
walks inside
my home,
my mind,
and takes me
away,
in the most
fitting of ways.

So,
don’t love me
for I will leave you,
or perhaps
eventually
you will leave
the two
of me
first.

Blue Period

You know, sleeping with all those men
is just a phase for me—a period if you
will. It’s like Picasso, and his going
through a “blue” period while painting.
Every creative soul goes through phases,
periods, hard times when you don’t know
how to pick yourself up, or even really
ever want to. You know, except it’s my
“whore” period—

No, I call it your PLAN B period.

Fact.

Never Truly Know Truth

Never Truly Know Truth

Kerplunk.
Kerplunk.
Kerchink.
Kerchunk.
Night drive
on a road
in desperate
need of repaving—
the black veil
shades what
I do not
want to
come back to.
Kerplunk
Kerchunk.
You like museums?
My mouth
opens
with that
single question
as my
heart
simultaneously
began to fill
with the
waters of
disappointment,
and fall—
Kerchink.
Kerplunk.
I thought
she knew.
Damnit.
I thought
she
knew
me.
Kerplunk.
Kerplunk.
Elebows embrace
knees pulled
tight.
Kerchink
Kerchunk
Fuck.
I probably don’t
really know
her true self
either.
Kerplunk
Kerplunk
Kerchink
Kerchunk.

I Left You

--dedicated to every place in Europe I have visited

I am
so
unhappy
without
you.

I have yet
to sleep
soundly
at night,
in my
so-called
bedroom
because
you are
so far away.

Nightly,
your presence
graces my
subconscious,
and I am
always
disheartened
to find,
it was
only
a dream—

and I
am so
sorry
I left
you.

I remember
vividly
that for
a split-second,
there was
an opportunity
I am sure,
to stay.

But all I did
was turn
to what I
thought
was comfort,
and home,
and I walked
away,
I
walked
away—

away from
my heart,
away from
dizzying happiness,
away from
the rejuvenation
of my spirit.

All I
feel now,
is a heavy,
boxed-in
emptiness.

Stereotypes Stem from Reality

bow
click, Click
Hello Kitty--
goodbye personal space.
I have a bubble
that isn't respected.

cover up, parasol.
one
day
each
for big cities.

flowing genie pants,
double peace signs,
take more posed photos
than a supermodel
during fashion week in Paris.

pretend to hold up the
leaning Tower of Pisa--

between the thumb and
forefinger, the Eiffel Tower,

balance the Arc de Triumphe,
in the palm of a hand.

stereotypes--
nope,
fucking fact,
I've experienced
it
first hand.

Mating Call: Pigeons? Humans?

Spot target.
Puff up,
ruffle
newly cleaned
feathers.
Let the sunshine
show off my
beautiful coloring
that distinguishes me
from the others.

Circle,
circle,
turn.
Circle,
circle,
turn opposite
direction.

Look at my agility,
my flexibility.
How could you
not want
this?

I'll coo loudest.
I'll protect you;
look at my
impressive
wingspan--
the stretch of
my neck
exceeds that of
the others.

Just look at me,
I will
not beg.

Fine--
I'm walking away,
I am.
I really,
really am.

Nothing?
You'll regret this--
fine.

Spot
new
target.

Ruffle feathers,
some fine
female
has got to
want this--
who wouldn't?

This Smile

Outside— her
obviously enviable,
pinky-peach palette
of ruffles and ruching
her
simpatico essence,
includes
a smile.

This smile
must have been
passed down
through generations.

One doesn’t
get
a smile
like that
just by
accident.

Careful planning
and a finesse
is needed
to find just
the right qualities
to introduce
something of pure
splendor
like this,
into the world.

It’s the kind that brags
eternal youth,
American
apple pie beauty
and a
deep peach
sun-tea
naiveté.

It’s welcoming,
and honest,
and true.
And exudes
an ease
that is attached
to a woman
of wisdom,
and strength—
Who at times
has had to
simply smile
just to get
through hardship
that has snuck
into her life.

At times I am
too far away
to witness
the visage of
tenderness
that is her smile.

But I know
that it is a
constant in
life—
just like how
each morning
in Summer,
when the sun
rises, and its
rays caress
the petals of
poppys and
morning glories,
they will
no doubt
open.

And with each
return
from wherever Life
has led me,
her sprawling,
deeply set
with use
smile,
appears—
And things just
seem to
fall into place
easier.

It’s the feeling
I have—
always a bit short
in the monetary
system of life,
and she’s there
to hand me
the exact change.

Bubbles

My knees ache,
and my back hurts
from rocking her
back and forth,
but I sit—
to get down
on her level.

She had pointed upward,
communicating in her
foreign baby language,
at the blue cylindrical
object with the neon
mustard yellow wand.
The item that made—

her eyes widen,
the drool from her
forthcoming fifth tooth
intensify, the piece of cracker
in her right hand fall
to the floor.
It was bubbles.

Beautiful
floating bubbles,
that if one touched
lightly enough
with the magical
plastic wand,
would bounce—

and softly land
on one’s skin,
or Persian rug
or the tongue
of the toddler whom
I’ve been sitting for.
She can’t get enough—

of the soapy
nontoxic (thank goodness)
balls of iridescent splendor.
I’m not entirely sure the reasoning,
but I must say how easy it is
to become captivated—
they’re hypnotic.

So, what the hell—
I stick out my tongue,
mimicking the 15 month-old
and let the soapy spheres land.
Mmmmm, they don’t taste
the least bit appetizing,
but I’m nevertheless in bliss.

My Vow

Blank,
staring
straight
at the
tiled
backsplash
of my
mother’s
kitchen.
Bad
chardonnay
to my
left—
ice cubes
in it
because I
tend to
keep it
classy
in life.
I’ve
made
an
executive
decision
that I
have got
to get
back to
normal
and start
drinking—
You see
I tried
to cut
back.
Lets be
real, I’m
a bit
vain about
my figure,
and I try
to stay
healthy.
Alcohol
was bloating
my stomach,
drying my
skin and
deepening
the single
wrinkle I
have between
my brow
that no
amount of
$120/ounce
miracle cream
could fix.
Plus I
had an
awful
memory
partly because
I kept
blacking out
at night.
Good
old
days.
But I had
gotten sufficient
at functioning
while thoroughly
hung over,
or still
drunk
from the
previous night.
At least
I had
stories to
draw upon.
But now,
I’m just
incredibly
unsatisfied
empty and
uninterested
in any
of the
recent “inspirations”
swimming around
within my
head.
No alcohol
must mean
no writing
when it
comes to
me.
So to
aid myself,
back to
normal—
regain,
my passion
to write
I’ll raise
my glass—
after glass.
A bottle
after bottle,
shot after
gag-inducing
shot.
I
will
write
with fervor,
with fiery
zeal,
with life,
again.

A Moment

Wobbling toward me,
she smiles
the most warming smile
I’ve ever seen,
punctuated by
four small teeth
just starting to come in.
Her tropical blue eyes
glisten with reflections of
a spitfire personality
and stand out among
her charmingly cow licked
mahogany-hued
locks.

Watching her daily,
is like enjoying
my grandma’s spread
of ribs, potato salad,
baked beans
and berry pie on
the Fourth of July
with my entire
family around me.
It’s simply
pure
rejuvenation
of the spirit.

Her tiny hands,
arms, angled head,
signal,
Up!
Never have I
or will I
resist this kind
of request.
As I lift her
obligingly to me,
she nestles her head
into the comforting
cranny that all children
can find on a woman.
The spot that is created
by the curvature of
neck, chest, and shoulder.

I start instinctively
bobbing and rocking
to the sounds
of silence
in the background—
ever so softly shhhing
in her tiny ear
that resembles the
delicate shells birthed
from the sea.

Her arms become limp.
Her legs dangle
around my waste
and she sighs
and coos in relaxation—
every so often
sucking her pointer finger.
It’s teething time
and I can feel the
puddle of drool
growling larger
upon my blouse.

As time passes,
my arms grow tired,
my lower back aches
and my shirt will
need to be laundered,
but never
would I think
to put down
this little girl—
selfish reasons really,
I’ve never felt so at ease
and willing
to love
as I do
when holding a child.

Guestroom

Seaweed walls,
to soothe.
Mint bedspread with underlying
duck feather-stuffed blankets,
to impress with luxury.
Matching porcelain goose and
complimentary floral reprints
of lands one visits only in dreams,
to inspire.
Feminine mahogany accents
To add subtle strength.
Perfectly bloomed
fake exotic orchids,
to simulate life.
A single blue whale encased
in ice-like glass,
to hint at times long gone.

Morning Buzz?

Woke up in the morning and
feeling a tingly-strange—
drinking coffee straight black,
cup by cup I pour it down my
allergy ridden, reddened throat.
Yet still, my mind
is ever so foggy,
from the previous night’s
shenanigans.

I am chatty, and a little grimy—
makeup remnants still litter my face,
my hair could use a good washing,
my arm is riddled with bar stamps
and my toes are black
because I walked
home barefoot—
damn hells.
But still,
I’m oddly content.
It is my only day off
from my menial,
going-nowhere job.

Today is my
do whatever I want day.
I almost squeal with glee
because I realize I won’t have to
talk to overly excited
obese citizens waddling
into the bakery,
drooling at the pastries.

I turn to my dear friend,
whose house I am at
literally more often
than my own,
her couch still
has my imprint
within its cushions,
and say,
I think I’m still buzzed…
or maybe is this just what
being really happy feels like?

Mucca's Garden

Mucca’s Garden

Even if the berries
aren’t ripe—and
splotches of red
infect the surfaces
of the otherwise
delectable oblong
Marion berries.
I have an inherent
child-like, unyielding,
desire to eat the fruit
before my cousins get
to them. I admit,
(slightly embarrassed)
that I am twenty-two
and this has been
going on since
I can remember.

I have my fill and then
proceed to the blueberries—
each bursts inside
my mouth
in the most
satisfying of ways—the juices
stain my teeth, tongue
and lips
a faint plum—
always revealing
to my family, my
stealthy trips to the
garden alone.

Strawberries—rubies nestled
within a treasure-trove
of emerald foliage.
I have to be extra sly when
stealing these.
Garden spiders
lay awaiting my greedy fingers.
Their legs barely touching my
blind digits reaching into the
unknown. Each attempt to acquire
the hoping that my
luck hasn’t run out just yet—
And after I am sufficiently
full, and the vines and plants
have been raped by my hunger
I lie in the crabgrass underneath her plum tree.
It’s one of my favorites on her property.

As a little girl, I was unaware
those plums were homes
to the evil pit.
I dove into that first piece
of ripe fruit with fervor, and
ate the whole thing in entirety—
only to afterwards relay the information
to my mom that—
There was a rock in my piece of fruit.
To this day I have no idea how,
as a six-year-old I could swallow
something so hard and large.
But I was a chubby
and determined little girl
that always finished
her food—and that time,
I assume,
was no exception.

Lace Butterflies

Grey barren ceilings—
slow the heartbeat
and dim the reflection
within glassy eyes.

While looking downward
at the slick pavement
a single plump worm
wriggles— searching

for a dry surface,
fighting for his life.
The possibility of drowning
becomes more prominent.

But beyond the mundane
color scheme,
there is a beauty
which can bring a calm

to even the most
empty of feelings.
These tiny, delicate
ruffled petals of

loveliness adorn
the trees from my
favorite afternoon walk—
accentuating the otherwise

deadened brown sprigs
of bark. Wholeheartedly,
I feel the frost-bitten vegetation
is thoroughly jealous of

the new spring babes
reaching their tiny arms
to the welcoming
Mother earth.

Each resembling bundles
of butterflies, fluttering
in a downward cyclone
of ethereal wonderment—

one may even describe
each imperfect flower as
an explosion of county fair
popcorn kernels popped perfectly—

or the intricate lace embellishments
on the hourglass framed bodice
of a virginal bride’s dress,
on her most joyous day.

And it’s because of a single
sunlight afternoon
that these chameleon-like
blossoms opened

exposing life that had been
hidden for months, safely
in it’s self-made cocoon.
A true annual gift of the season.

Thanksgiving Jog

The ever lowering temperature
personified itself as wisps of
breath as she ran—
faster and faster because the night’s
obstacles consisted of
a string of potholes,
lonely immigrants and coyotes.

While she kept a steady pace,
scents of tradition and love
and obligation
were wafting through the air
in the form of scalloped potatoes,
green bean casserole and burnt dinner rolls—
irritating reminders of
Thanksgiving.

At least 45 minutes,
that’s what she needed
to distress, to distract herself.
Yet curiosity led her to peak
into the lit windows of each
picket-fenced home she passed.
Was everyone else allowing
the holiday to sink in
and choose—
or pretend
to focus
on what made up the good
thus far?

Abuse in a New Form

Abuse in a New Form


Nowadays a man
doesn’t even
need to be face to face
with a woman
to abuse her with his
arrogant
thoughtless,
vengeful words.

Electronic devices
have become
stone-colored,
cold messengers
which are the
catalysts that
end relationships
with the mere option,
“send.”

He likes her at first,
and isn’t afraid to say so—
of course none of it is “said”
through
verbal communication.


Lets just fuck,
before you
move away—
it would end my
infatuation with you.

Come over now,
I love morning sex.

All I want is you in my bed.


She says he’s being ridiculous,
and tries to downplay the fact
he’s acting as though
she’s some hooker off the streets
wanting to be bought
so she can pay off her
expensive coke habit.


I’m not going to stop
being forward with you.

If you don’t respond to me,
this is bullshit.

It’s funny how when
a word as simple as “no”
is included in the mix—
anger emerges.

Holding in your feelings just makes
it better,
ignoring me is really healthy.

I love that fact
that we have been friends
for multiple years,
and you still won’t date me.
Fuck you, you tease me.


Why must a woman be seen
as wanting sex,
because of dress
or a little flirting.
She never hid her personality.
But nevertheless,
she’s the evil conspiring
man-eating female that
wants nothing more than to
squash any man that gets in her way
and takes pleasure in destroying the
idea of romance.

Poor innocent man,
never doing anything wrong
simply being the Neanderthal
that he is and giving in to his
penis’ yearnings.
A woman must surely
allow the man to fuck her
if he feels fit.
It’s the way of the world.

I would have fucked you,
past tense.
I don’t think I should get involved.

I deserve better—
And everyone around me
Thinks so too.

He’s right,
he deserves someone who’s
attracted to him,
wants him,
and has actual interests
in common with him.
His ego must be saved.
His reputation, redeemable
after this sort of rejection?


I liked you
because
you have issues.
I can tell you have had many
healthy relationships
with boys.
I can’t look at you the same way.
Fuck you.

Still anger doesn’t arise within her.
Yet an upsetting and unsettling feeling
begins to surround her.
How many more men
feel entitled to say whatever he feels fit
when the woman says “no?”

Bewilderment surfaces as she
discovers this new facet of
his personality.
People don’t hide
who they really are, ever.
Clues are carefully placed,
Like the little breadcrumbs
Hansel and Gretel put down
in the forest, to find their
way back home.

I like this angry energy we have,
It makes it better for me.

Can I put this more harshly?
Fuck you.

If I ignore you or leave the
room when you come in,
that’s my special way of saying
fuck you.

Not being your friend
is the healthiest thing
for me.


Treatment like that
garner’s no response
because a reaction is what
a man like that wants
from the woman.
He wants to know he’s
weaseled underneath her skin—
sucked a little life from her,
made her question
who she is.


Have a nice life.

4 Tries Equals, Lesson Learned

Four Tries Equals Lesson Learned

All for B.J.

I couldn’t cum.
Goddamn it that
is so frustrating.
Why couldn’t I?
One simple answer.
It wasn’t good.
I have no grand
illusions of sex,
it doesn’t always have
fireworks exploding
in the background—
lots of
satisfied panting,
the simultaneous
climax of the pair
doing the act—

But this was just
boring—
and I’m being
semi-nice
about the whole thing.

I literally said,
Go ahead and cum,
it’s not going to
happen with me
tonight.

(Did he have to
on my stomach?
It looked like I was
five and had gotten into
odd-colored frosting.)

He begged in
frustration,
What do you
want? Need?

I couldn’t put
my finger
on it,
but it definitely
wasn’t the beached
whale that was thrusting
on top of me.
It was like I was the sand
and he was scraping
his fins against
me to get back to the
ocean where
he belonged.

That said,
I did get a lot
of mental
to-do lists
started in my head
while pretending
to actually enjoy
myself.

I wonder,
and still to
this day,
How can a man
be so good at kissing,
but so awful in bed?

I yearned
only for
multiple-hour
make-out sessions like
we were still
high school students
with raging hormones.

Honestly,
I’m guessing
it’s because he was
with the same
beer-bellied,
white-trash
ignorant
woman
for
five years
before meeting me.

Back-story—
seeing him with me
sent her into hellish
rages full of
crass name-calling
shoe-throwing,
and ninja kicks
against my car.

He must be so
used to making
a woman—
whose future consists
of getting knocked up
by some illegal alien,
(blind, most likely)
who then
leaves her
after he finds out she
is with child
because he can’t be
with a woman
the definition of
low-standard,
cum—
that he has no idea
it takes more
finesse,
a little sexy
foreplay,
some actual
mental connection
to get a woman
going.

I should have known
right away
this was
going to blow up
in my face
because we only
had things in common
when we drank—
like lust, or an affinity
for…
I’m actually drawing
a blank on anything
besides lust
at the moment.

Otherwise he
enjoyed conversing about
cartoons like Southpark
or television shows
like Cops.
(His uncle was on it—
big fucking deal,
he isn’t anymore
and
he still
watches it.)

Not to mention
stand-up qualities like
his previous
meth-addict
days
multiple
DUI’s,
arrests,
and
the only skill he
is able to put on
his resume is summed
up by the fact that he can
pour a decent
gin and tonic.

Here’s the kicker,
he tells the world,
I’m bad in bed.
I’m sure it’s to cover his
own ass.
I’m not going to tip-toe
around it and say
I was so amazing.
I wasn’t due to
the preceding mentioned reasons.

I’m not that great of
an actress either
so he most
likely could tell
I would rather be
pulling my
fingernails off
one by one
than have him
try to devour
me like
the greasy,
cheap,
fattening,
fast-food
he is so accustomed
to consuming
on a daily basis.

More than ever I
miss good old-fashioned
playful,
spontaneous,
sex.
The kind that happens early in the morning
resulting in faint bruises
in the form of handprints
etched onto my thighs.

Now I still believe
in second chances,
so many things
can go wrong during
a
first fuck—
but after that,
move on,
that shit ain’t
gettin’ better.

A Part of My Heart

Part of My Heart

For Brigette Bonfiglio—
Here’s to looking forward and being par t of one another’s
lives for a very long time,
in whatever form is meant to be.

She wore her emotions
effortlessly
for the world to see
on that deliciously freckled
and dimpled face of hers,
sugared sprinkles of delight.

A glaring and furrowed brow—
if she was not fond of you
but when she was—
oh, her smile seemed to
illuminate the entire room.
light poured in from every direction
as though it was daybreak
and the sun had begun to climb
over the plush green hillsides,
almost blinding one’s sight enough
that a hand was needed to shade
the eyes.

The cork-screwed, rust-colored hair
drew people to her—
people just loved to touch her,
and her hair.
But the Girl Scout heart of pure sparkling gold
Is what kept everyone close.

Just quite—
not shy,
but strong in convictions and morals,
and so loyal she no doubt would take the first swing
if a situation aroused where she needed to defend
a loved one.

Her nature was simply to help others,
to be the calming rock-strong shoulder
and chest to lay one’s troubles upon.
She could sense unhappiness,
but never pushed another to divulge more than intended.
By simply engaging her in any sort of conversation
you told her your life story without even realizing it.

And when she left,
whales from the sea sighed heavy sighs,
honeybees atop the roofs buzzed a little slower,
persimmons from the lonely tree in her backyard dropped to the ground,
And I simply cried.

Goodbye my dear, dear friend,
my confidant, dancing and drinking partner,
a part of my heart.