She puts herself there.
Amidst the sea of heads,
her wings flutter around
the social snowstorm.
She never gets cold
of doubling over and wheezing and coughing.
She wears Issei Miyake as she starts her engine again,
her laugh as gas.
The ocean in her eyes starts
waves that her kids boogie board on. An epidemic spreads,
one that you want to catch.

She is the constant.
If the party is without her
time drags on as feet against the pavement.
Heads will turn to find
the noise she makes,
like popping plastic bubbles,
your favorite note on the piano, sizzling garlic on a hot pan,
typing on a keyboard,
rain pitter patter on the glass shield.

She is not to be mistaken
as the host
or the entertainment,
though everyone agrees she could make a living off of it.

I like her best when I get her all to myself
not when she is with Fie, Fy, and Fo
not when she is chasing the cat
and most definitely not between the last weeks of June.
When I get her to myself,
that’s where she sounds the best;
More her face and not her hair,
It’s the twin to Marilyn Monroe.
There was a time when I didn’t hear her as much;
what she said to me went over my head,
what I said went under her feet.

She and I finally,
finally,
laugh together.
But I know that when she does,
it’s different,
so I always let
her laugh
a little louder
than me.