December 11, 2012


I live in a house in the city
on a street that turns green every spring
with the man who calls me his woman
and the woman that he thinks I am.

I wear his ring on my finger.
I wear her smile on my face.
He keeps me happy and laughing,
and she keeps me in my place.

But at night, when the windows go silent,
when all of the house is asleep,
I can still hear my caravan rolling
somewhere far away from my street.

And I still feel the drums of my jungle.
I still know all the words to the songs.
I still smell the animal on me,
under all my expensive colognes.

I still smell the spray of the ocean
when the wind blows in from the east.
And I yearn, with a nomad's devotion,
for a road rolling under my feet.

I'm a quiet, respectable woman.
All my clothes are dry-cleaned and beige.
But I still have my old scarlet lipstick.
I might wear it again one day.

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