If just one thing should let me be, let it be this.
That unruly mop of dark strands that top
your head remain on the heads of everyone;
and mine too, is halfway between you and this
and never has been or will be enough.
The makeover's broken; madeover nothing
but the travails that change by themselves. Sing
they will or have in discontentment and alertion
that "he is wearing the same exact shoes that X wore;
this doesn't mean anything. Pay closer attention!"
In the wind, I was caught up in the downturn. A
microburst of a life that really had no idea what it was
but lived often. Lived fantastically even.
