A Tumbleweed Contessa Poem: sometimes the ceiling drops on her

just another day, another dollar-two-fifty

for wind-blown, euphonious  poetry

Mimi Wolske

All Rights Reserved 

© sometimes the ceiling drops on her

she never knows what chapter she’s in,

she never understands the plot, and

she never knows what to do next.

whipping out her pair of used scissors

like an old gunslinger, she

cuts down snow-licking sunflowers

before they become massively dehydrated;

it’s her own private blend of

brain-hatching unhappiness.

there she squats sobbing tears of dirt,

legs bent like a grasshopper’s

with her knees at her shoulders,

her arms tight around those coltish legs

as if to prevent them from

wandering off and leaving her.

stretching for an explanation, trying

desperately to fall into

the rhythm of the story, but

she never knows what chapter she’s in,

she never understands the plot, and

she never knows what to do next.

(painting by Michael Cheval)