she wears a feather on her arm
she wears a feather on her arm
because a heart is too personal a thing
to expose to the changing air
after the gig, in a Paris bar
she makes conversation with the damaged man
tends to the cuts on his hands
she rides a Harley on the interstate
worrying about the crash
dreaming of the Big Sky Country
she deflects the too easy “I love you”
longs for a secluded hideaway
nestled among the Brooklyn streets
someplace they could be together
where he could play the guitar and she
could make new entries in her book of happiness
for now she’s bumming a ride to Florida
one blackbird in a flock of doves
the feathered girl looking for a place to land
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