I mention her,
I tend to forget
To tell people how she
Breathes life into any room
She happens to enter, even
The vacuumed ones between the hours
Of sunset and rise where dreams are revived.
Than the end of
Of the performance,
Clinging to the things of
Comfort she’s collected down
The years and wearing clothing
That only the lonesome consider
Applicable for their old marooned homes.
Sticking out and
Splitting the air at
Handling the body’s movement
With all the grace of a racehorse
Who fell at the first fence and hadn’t
Realised its life would be full of jumps.