Rita

[R]ide, ride, ride pony into the night, with
[I]ndian hair flapping in the wind.
[T]ell me the old, old story
[A]gain and again.

Let's hang out again, Rita,
at that place on your t-shirt.
"The McMenamin's Grand Lodge."
"Hotel Oregon."
I'll wait for you outside your room like we did before,
wishing we would have caught you before you got too drunk.
You probably think I should become an anthropologist since
my waiting was a type of rude voyeurism.
But, you must understand, Rita, that you're
my homegirl.

You let us be kids again,
drawing on that sidewalk with chalk,
our hands gritty and dusty afterwards.
You made us use our imaginations and lose our inhibitions
by making us act things out.
You reminded us of those Jesus love songs we used to know.
Rita, you accomodated:
for the fearful people.
for the too-mich-for-their-own-good people.
for the backrow of hostility.

You read poetry with such longing in your voice.
Your voice, oh so human!
The way you changed those Jesus love songs
and made them your own!
The stories you would tell of your life, of your knowing.

You're so beautiful, Rita.
That one week you wore earrings and painted your face.
Not to mention that smile, too.
Then you invited that guy into our group.
You always were "chaotic in [your] love life."

Wink, Rita.
Blink, Rita.
Tap tap tap.

Thanks to you I will

[R]emember always those Jesus songs, those
[I]ndian dances,
[T]hose
[A]frican rituals.