Her Life As A Poem

[Sparkydashforth]

She was big-boned,
yet her parts were delicate;
a fine-spun sprouting of prairie brome
threaded through
moss and engine block.

Her home was a pine and burlap shack
for wayward cats.
From her tangled porch
she would discourse on the art of life.
Poems grew in small pots
muddled with Ramen noodles and moth wings.

Her life often vacationed to a studio apartment
on the East bank of her right eye,
where she sought more windmills to charge.
She wrote on the back of her mouth
with cigarette smoke.
Her poems were the rain-filled footprints,
of Jack Kerouac.

She had letters before
and after her name;
a fame made legendary
by all the gaps and pauses
she shrewdly refused to fill in.