Rooster Original
Emily Dickinson just walked by my window,
only she wore tie dye and smoked a spliff.
Her steps weaved her body sound waves,
treading barefoot, as a swift walking stick sister.
Her white dress was splattered with colors
(clown wig orange, secret society red, fluid blue, mind massaging green, blast-off purple, corn kernel under lamplight yellow).
It was bold to any eye in an outside world,
and blinding to prisoners living within the walls of house and garden.
Emily kissed her spliff
(like she had known all along that it could be this good)
as she strode, slicing the air,
inhaling the response to her letter to the world.
I had never read any of her work.
But there she was, right there through my window,
stoned and strolling the Earth, with ancient tie-dye in her wake.
Her hair flooded from her scalp in dance,
no longer worn as a battle garment to protect her tender brain.
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