-Purposeful Nimbus Musing-

She lampposts a jig.
The street is sheen and plastic;
her hat a marionette.
It should be raining.
But maybe she is too much
slatch anyway.
Like she prefers it to be
wrong and sunny.
That way she can babble
and be her own puddles.
Fog is she,
but something more denude.
I get the idea she would
have a rummy face in photographs.
Always a little tilted
like Picasso’s drunken selfies.
Then she passes.

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