POEM FOR MIRA

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Has anybody seen a tartan sage wool skirt with a slight mustard yellow

plaid stripe criss-crossing tucked into it a pre-war grey turtle neck with

two legs and two arms, little nose, thin lips and wide eyes running through the streets?

 

Small body lost in a tartan landscape?

 

Frail ship sailing through forgotten seas? Scuttling feet that once danced the waltz at the... now scurrying through quick sand?

 

Picture of a withering dusty frau who has the spirit of Thelma and Louise on a milk carton, have you seen her?

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The day was grey, as pure and opaque and thick as her grey wool stockings

old lass Mira ran away from her retirement home again

her blue eyes, deep set in her archaic sockets like Mayan temples flirtatious with the moon

her sapphire eyes held secure like a rhinestone cowboy on the back of a bucking bronco

her crystal gaze flashes

telepathic historian, professor of herself

her Victorian blouse flutters from the gust of her stride

her wee swollen ankles scurrying across the pavement

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Fade to Gray

a perfect song

a perfect palette

for a stray

an outlaw of age

the gangster of getaways

 

Los Vegas, Los Mira, lost Mira, Mira lost

caught site of her one day, half a kilometer away from the home

her baby blues winked twice at me

two royal sweeping winks

which said, I am the master of myself and I'm up to no good; I know what I need, who I am, what I was, what I utter, how I sound now and how I sounded before...where I came from, where I am and where I keep trying to get to but lose track of as soon as I set foot out the door, a crying shame, a god damn wasted getaway...I fear nothing but fear itself, so if you could please, I could use a hand blowing out of this popsicle stand.

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She survived storms and lost those she loved, amongst other things

her vintage infrastructure

her vast spinal garden has been crutched by hired scaffolding

paid support systems

paid slack systems

paid pseudo-tender care

that can't quite hold the stack

she is that building that moves and shakes

famous night club

that doesn't quit

she is both the walls who holds her own head and the ceiling, which doesn't collapse on herself

she leaves her own building

she is her own personal concierge and stands witness to her exit

"I saw me leave last Wednesday”

nowhere to be found

 

When she runs away, she runs north into her fantasy landscape

her imaginative cinematic sunset

the old Volvo transcends into a cavalier

remembering the days she wore tight jeans and a plaid crop top veneer

The days she was a hot mom/dame

hot dame with long brown hair

and outgrown honey blonde highlights

wearing a green and white plaid flannel shirt

buttons down

boobs up

light faded jeans

faux ankle cowboy boots cross desert boot

and a jean jacket

tied around her waste

bee stung lips mouth the words

FOREVER YOUNG

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They used to say Mira does miracles and sets the night on fire

a trail blazing storm that splits the sky

wild-eyed Mira they called her

she'll steal your car, break your heart and leave you wanting more

funny how the body breaks down changes shape

just like a mustang running through the hot desert, with osteoporosis, oil light flashing

I found Mira last Wednesday a la' grand theft auto, again

she hasn't changed a wink.

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