Nun Perfect
Tell me how you do that,
teach me how you go to sleep
in one city and wake up half way
across the continent with less money
in the safe than the local corner parishioner
in a 1963 black and white miracle movie.
When my mother was murdered,
I was among the “Lilies of the Field”.
I swore I would never fall in love
with a drifter who would leave and
break your heart, disappoint you,
with his Solomon meander in the only
way Sidney Poitier could ever do after
erecting a church with the strong arms
of a Acer nigrum, silently in the night.
But to the Nun(s) he was perfect
without a waving goodbye,
or long drawn out farewells...
he wasn't much for tears either.
If you are worried about the dog,
she's gone where all old good dogs go
to meet their predecessors in the
sweet soup of the creator's mind.
I was so sorry to hear, while I slept
in the back seat of an old Ion mind,
with my little piggy tail still curled
and snoring at my feet, you know,
she slept in a furnace all day,
all that heat can pack a girl up.
Home and crossing boundaries.
So every Cowboy hat ever born
under a starry sky with a cigar
dangling from his lip would hear
me whoop under the Lone star,
he's close, but none's perfect.
She's pretty darn close to broken
yarns of roads and pot holes of beautiful,
to pride's sore, red eyes.
© 2014 Corset