The Wrong Song

That song is so wrong for her,
like an oversize hand-me-down
jumper she’d never have chosen
herself—one with a square lace collar—
hey—she’s been preaching v-necks
for years. Lace is for curtains– not
to clown up a dress, she moans—
and it’s gray—Gray is for wildlife.
She’s wildly addicted to color—
cerulean blue and fuschia.
The wrong song is too tight,
like a corset halting her lungs,
when she needs release.
It would have to be worn with
nylons and toe-cramping shoes.
Where would she sing such a mad song?

But with the right song she
shimmys into her jeans, zips
her fleece, pops a hat from her pocket,
tosses a purple backpack onto a shoulder,
embarks on a path she knows, yet doesn’t
know yet--to find a song that fits her strut,
but more than that, one that will reach out
to you, dear listener: to you, and to you.
And her song is that song that we need.
And her song, more than anything
lets you breathe.