Let me tell you about Annie.
You may have seen her
Trampling the sidewalk
With her scuffed desert boots
And leathery, oil-stained blue jeans.
She has flour in her short blue hair
And a raisin in her blazer pocket,
Unnoticed mementos
Of her time in the kitchen
Trying to act like a woman.
She doesn’t walk, but charges lithely.
Her whispers are orations
To those near enough to hear,
Close enough to understand,
And willing enough to listen.
Annie heeds the winds of change
By standing still, her face pummeled,
Unable to breathe
Until the winds die down
And she smiles too broadly in victory.
Annie is beauty. Annie is strength.
Annie is a poet.
She is standing behind me
Making me publish this
Or else suffer to eat her baking.
Please be Annie’s friend.
Please.
The Daily Travesty 