For a Young Model, Looking For Direction

Who can say with certainty who it is
that’s born behind all the masquerading
honeyed words and soft, silk scorn?

So heavy cloaked by the stoop and cowl
of all the other pretenders

we’ll bow and scrape and whisper late
some lost childhood reminders:

a life lived and framed by the glimmer love of pictures,
in words and light made for enduring the expectations of others.

See here!

No there!

And quick as tearing fabric,
the map torn beyond repair–

it’s the same muttered curse
and scrabbling grabbing at the air.

Always and forever,
these pesky stares
and soiled toilet paper heels

running never getting anywhere
but sheltered by the emptiness ahead;

cloud bleached weather stretches steadfast–

clad by memories and bits of heather
still clinging
from the headlong
dash jump and flight from fetters.

Here and now it is better,

where we live and strive and die each day

old husks of selves cast off in litter.

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