A quiet, thinking girl in a loud, unplanned family
really short and innocent looking, too long legs and knowing eyes
I see too much of what no one wants to hear
never a child, never grown
Born on a military base, the product of natural gypsies traipsing
from place to place, playing house with one suitcase always packed
what reason to make friends, I'll be leaving soon
no region in my own country to call home
Daddy called me a beatnik, Mama called me a hippy for the future
a poet with a message grown cold, born too late or too soon
somewhere between disco and punk lies a muddy middle ground
no generation even to claim to be from
A beautiful woman with a homely face, my children flown
that brilliant mind wasted on Sunday brunch and Tuesday cake
hiding in my garden, writing serenely for myself
all hyped up on caffeine and roll your owns
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