She grew up on old TV shows,
Wearing baggy clothes,
And climbing trees,
Scraping knees,
Flirting with the other girls
As much as she pleased.

Her mother's a summer kind of lady,
But she'***** her October,
Heart freezing over.

Winter sweaters don't keep her warm.
Her father's arms wrapped 'round her
Are a once-every-three-months kind of
Comfort.

She's a man in disguise,
Under the soft skin and
Long-lashed eyes.
She's a renaissance man,
With a noble kind of pride,
Loneliness matching
Her long strides, beside her,
A paradoxical kind of
Comfort.