Six blocks south of my house,
A beautiful woman is resting,
It's a rare moment when her energy is spent
Her fuel gauge touched Empty,
Her engine died and she coasted home.
She runs a lot, this woman,
Short trips to and from, back and forth.
She does not use the parking brake much.
High gear but not high maintenance,
She runs herself into the ground.
If she were a car, perhaps she'd be a Volkswagen bug,
The original Beetle; short, loud,
Engine in the rear,
Prone to rattling at high speeds,
But easy to start up and easy to fix.
When she breaks down, which is often,
She says, "Just spray a little starter fluid in the carberator,
Give me a push and I'll be on the road again."
She runs and when she isn't running she is planning to run.
For a college girl, she has a weak vocabulary,
She doesn't know the meaning of the words:
Quit, give up, take a break, relax,
Certain phrases and idioms have eluded her:
Tomorrow will take care of itself,
Easy does it. Stop and smell the roses.
I have to block her way to get her to
turn and face the moon when it's full,
Else she'd never see it.
Her mind is a hundred yards ahead of her body.
Her body is racing to catch up.
She says our days are numbered,
And we might be called at any time.
She has much to do.
I try to tell her that I too have much to do
All those roses, all those moons.
