New poem!

Sorry, work drama has kept me from you.

I was lucky to go to park today and it relieved my spirit.
Pics later. Comments now! I think I should trim this one.

What We Think About the Missing Girl


if her hair had a voice it would sing
low and wordless yet musical

when no one appears to be listening
we refer to her hair
using words like “pelt” and “feral”
and “river”

sometimes when we are talking about the governments
of foreign lands and rebels and the need for change,
supplies and fresh fruit we are actually talking about her hair

and sometimes when we dream about a sweet pale liquid
and wake up in the dark, our lips cracked,
our eyes wet, we are dreaming about her hair

when our president on TV moves his right hand
forcefully and talks in bold, sweeping generalizations,
he is thinking about her hair

before our old men die, when they are staring upwards
and the room dims, their last vision is of her hair
falling slowly towards them, a gold curtain