Why did you do it?
Maybe, at almost thirty,
you wanted to recapture youth.
More likely, you haven't grown up.
However it happened,
you put black on that lovely hair
and now it won't wash out.
Oh sure, it's fading, but from
a distance there's no difference.
You've changed, and there's nothing
you do do but wait.
In the meantime, you dream
blonde dreams, living scenes
from your former life,
in the neighborhood you carry
in a part of your heart
you never escape.
You've got a channel
open to other outcomes--
the possible ones, that didn't happen:
your marriages to alcoholics
whose love for you
is rivaled only by their hate.
One spends his time with cars, the other
with words, and with both
you're so absolutely trapped.
Okay, so you did escape;
what did you earn?
Educated, graduated, moved
miles from home,
you're still just as afraid.
Living under an open sky,
you stay inside. You weep
long hours--I don't think
your sadness can be cured.
When you dyed your hair
and fought with the last friend
you have where you come from,
I'll bet you thought you meant:
This is the end.
I'm done and I'm gone.