Coyote claims she is independent and feral, free of gravity, fashion, and all forms of punctuation.

Yet she constantly nurtures a period and adores her red boots.

She hands me a purse made out of a frog and a twenty dollar bill to buy a black dress, always treating me better than I ever treat myself.

We sit without touching on the “El” to the airport – together in a seat, apart in our futures.

She makes eye contact with a demented street preacher, but I pay the price for smacking an arm.

Eye contact is Coyote’s sole purpose in life now, while slipping by unnoticed seems to be mine.

I am Slick and she is Coyote.

I listen as her boots fade away in a samba, a bittersweet echo of friendship and farewell.

No road trip is ever complete without the conundrum of Coyote.

Now she is home while I struggle in my city of strange urban dreams, this blue-collar oasis of magic and charm.

My heart is here but my life lies elsewhere.

Tonight I will shower in the meteors of Pleiades, while I howl apostrophes up at the void.

Tonight I will dance in two different sneakers, trying to make eye contact with the face of the moon.

Where is Coyote to help me erase  life’s question mark?

Copyright 2009

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