Gon' drinkin', out behind a
Reservoir of good will, with
Pillbox eyelids, and third-day dirt.
Stumbling, and suddenly sobered
By a Queen holding Court

Silver-freckled, auburn haired
Sweating under the sun
Shining on her tee shirt
Somewhere, from a secret cigarette
Soft-blue silk is rising.

Men wearing armor, the color of
Christmas lights, stand guard.
Invisible, if not for an
Incessant rain, insisting on
Their silhouettes.

Bronze icons, the rubble beneath her.
Returned to their birth-site, the
Brush and broken glass of a
Resin-colored dusk.
"If you're having trouble
With your next one, it won't be
Too hard to light it for you. I know
How fast tears can
Dowse a needed flame."

Still the snow-covered stick of dynamite, and a
New stick is now burning,
Behind all the bushes.
True belief in her
Opportunity for rebuttal.

Boot prints in the courtyard
Press a face that look up at us
"Like a cross-between Kurt Cobain and Jesus."
Martyrs of a movement
Our people fail to understand.

Polite to the end, and even
Presented with the
Crowned homecoming of a higher horizon, she
Spins and falls, deliberately sputtering out
"Don't let me get smoke in your eye."