they’d always called her a wishy-wash, they had,
but it wasn’t, it wasn’t her fault,
just had this gut-wrench, foot-high-float sort of feel to her,
and she walked like she was afraid of flyin’ from the earth,
delicate, slow.
but what they liked most about her was how soft-spoken she was,
how she ain’t ever been much for trouble.
so they let her go her own odd way.
‘n their ways grew hard, worse;
men in slick shoes and suits, with slick voices oozing from beneath their slick hair, all showed on the slick televisions installed lavishly on the city,
talkin’ how great they were,
sellin’ rose-scented shit,
‘n makin’ a good try of it too.
‘n she ain’t much for trouble anyhow,
she kept her head down, ‘n shuffled where she would.
the rain ‘n gray of the concrete turn everything gray-scale.
the old are razed,
‘n more steel ‘n concrete raised.
she’s living in a ten by ten,
with a t.v. that dials itself,
she drank tea, ‘n reads gov. approved books,
‘n they finally come knocking at her door.
what they liked most about her was how soft-spoken she was,
but she still remembered.
ain’t that she was old mind,
but that these were little more than boys,
rapid ‘n rabid with slick thoughts wrapped ’round less than slick minds.
She shook her head,
held each arm straight out,
‘n with great ‘n wild effort,
flapped herself about a foot of the ground.
The movement made the muscles of her side burn,
but the air was good.
she flew away,
and most of the city joined her.
they watched a cascade of “m”s fly towards sunset.
M
m
M
m
