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For Marcy

who tends to the old man downstairs, wakes the incontinent dog for a walk; moves one dusty memory to another table, making room for her art. Realize her hula hoop of a dream,
moving from anxious waist to ready neck and then back down again.

 Adapt. Adept. A moving target. Wedded to starving, she laughs at last when we're together but in the solace of her car is likely to pound glass with the back of her hand, chewing at wrist restraints, planning escape.

 Her medium is pure black and white against sky; playful juice tumblers for others. No more April fool. Finally she has snuck back into the busy market of farmers, no longer lonely, scouring for basil, tomatoes, and a fist of dahlias big as her bursting thoughts and fragile as her kiln-fired heart which 
when tapped prematurely may tumble into a ship of splinters, a sturdy raft with bright, rippling pirate's flag. All those necessary trees hitched together. She will be disguised as Ms. Tom Sawyer. With knowledge. Give her a game. A throne. Standing ovation for her prowess, her balance. Gift her a tambourine, a solid beat, a modest yellow brick road.

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