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?