JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

She’s five minutes to fifteen

a vagabond, an angel

locked into pop-idol, rubber-legged

philosophies, a railroad of steel strings

reverberating between her piercing

and her not so pretty graffiti tattoo

 

She’s long outstripped her mother

who trails behind picking up her flimsies

like a taxi driver on way to a laundromat

 

But she’s cool. Has her own rules. Cuddles

animals, doesn’t smoke or drink

and then she smiles her understanding

into yours at some shared thought or melody

like a sliver moon coming up and

in a single night swelling to fullness

 

Etched on its glowing face a recollection

of your own adolescence you imagined

you had abandoned