Another Poem from Meagan, the Birthday Girl

She Doesn't Wear a Jacket

Drugs lace their lingo.
Sex swims on their lips.
Smoke coats their convo;
She laughs at darted quips.

Crack bridges barriers
And booze opens doors.
Powder pushes pulses;
Inhibition hits the floor.

Inhibition is the jacket
That she rarely ever wears.
It doesn’t let her move enough.
Its color doesn’t dare.

And it’s autumn in the city,
Her steps are rushing-free.
She doesn’t don that jacket.
She’s asked: how can this be?

"My drug is in the sun’s shot.
My sex is in the grass.
That fog that coats my memory
Too shimmers on lake-glass."

You ask her if she’s crazy.
You query of her joy.
You seek to sweet-corrupt her.
You’re carved of natural boy.

She answers you with wind-words
Racing on the breeze...
She answers you with eyes-wide:
“I love life. This is me.”