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A Kind Of People We are a kind of people who smooth our songs over pickle and peanut butter on rye. Who’s lips are red with grinning, laughing, tongues like plump snakes curled up in their throats striking only teeth, only words, long winded mouth slip sermons in dead of night, over pop-corn and candy-corn and making no assumptions on who is what is only why. A kind of people who skip in dripping gutters and bound down rolling hills with stickly weeds clinging to our asphalt-ripped dreams. Who cling to beliefes and to the arms of our sisters as we jump inot ourselves, into our strengths, into our weaknesses, into our each other. A kind of people who lie beneath pianos and stretch up our arms to feel tear-strung sonatas vibrate through our fingertips. Who cling to the black beams of the underbelly of a baby grand to feel alive. A kind of people who wail our Broadway songs from street corners in towns with no names. Who let their eyes drink starlight as medicine to soothe the day. A kind of people who drive, and drive and drive on until there is no road, to see what forever looks like. Who grip hands and link elbows as if we were five again. We are a kind of people who love and live and learn and laugh as the saying goes. We are a kind of people.
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