Soot

I ride my bike
along the pink dawn rim.
I never fell from the sky,
never forgot to stop laughing.
Your daisies never died.

I lived once in a purple room,
hung my clothes from a
lopsided crate, lip-
synched with ELO, rasped
with Rod Stewart.
Owned nothing. Nothing owned me.
I flew every night,
sparks winging from hands and feet.

I glance at my hands.
Soot still covers my fingertips.

Pris Campbell
(c)2005