signs in ancient pawprint and baby-food writ;
the dusted eyes of strangers like freckles on my skin.
this is my vagabond mantra and it's stuck like tree-sap.
i'm a freshly squeezed glass of milk,
organically un-tasty and i know it.
my feet are steeltoe boots and they're learning
to punch tornados in the face; to break noses.
a jet plane holding the fifteen
personalities of me is leaving;
i'm going away, and i'll say it till it's true;
i don't taste tar anymore; i'm carrying my
bright orange heart to keep warm in those Alaskan sunsets.
i'm finally going away, so don't worry.
it's not about anything.
it's just that i learned
to breathe on my own,
and the air tastes so much
like Thanksgiving turkey.
© Lauren I. Sotolongo