THE WOMAN AT THE CONCERT WHO TWIRLED

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She arrived barefoot
Making her entrance 
on the green grass carpet
Pulled by the
Magnet of music
Her shoes
Abandoned
Like glass slippers
Her toddler orbiting her
Like a baby astronaut
Around the hemisphere of her skirt
Which twirls
Like an umbrella
In Singing in the Rain
As she performs 
the spontaneous,
wild-child
choreography
of motherhood
Leaving in her car
The depleted Happy Meal sack
The weaponized heart
The inheritance of disappointments
The provocation of bills
The asterisks 
The annotations
The affirmations
The endless excuses and
The resistance of indisputable facts
Which is why she is here
On leave from the crusades
With its sanguinary battlefield 
of computers
And coworkers
And a marriage 
That has lost its romance
Like the keys that she can never find

She has come to let go of the equation 
which she insists is the truth
To turn to the sun and the sky
For all the wisdom that she needs.
Which will compel her 
To feel the irresistible presence
of right now
Which will instruct her to
close her eyes
And sway her arms 
like stalks of
Kansas wheat
While me, 
Watching from
A million miles away
Exiled by age
And this proclamation of white hair
Feels so much love for her that I feel like
I will burst into million pieces.








































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