The broken angel of slow *** flight
Walked up to the store with rock and roll in her heels
In front of drunk men
She belted out a few lines of a seventies classic
Her singing wild and ***** as her body
A crazy street person they would say
As she caringly petted the store owner’s dog
Looks of mild contempt were her thanks
And yet her love flowed
Some foreign heart untouched by ordinary ignorance
She stayed awhile and tried to make friends
Mostly ignored, except for the occasional glance one has towards a circus show
Performing and yet not performing
She lifted up her shirt for some reason to reveal her stomach
She had the free sexuality of a playful stripper
And then she spun out again in another direction
After awhile she left
With a genuine smile for everybody

The reason for her visit was unclear
But she was tagged a ***
And there was some relief that she was gone
How can a person’s apparent vocation cloud the stars they explode for you?
A slow firework blew by the store and is seen like the dirt under our shoes
Whereas we wear our boredom like a crown
And hold others to the same so-called normal criteria  
We call her a ***
But envy the rebel ruby of her freedom

© Matthew Goff