Waiting for my soul.

Sitting quietly, very quietly, in a wooden chair
with a hard back. 
Like a jungle member I watch and wait
for pretty soon my soul will creep out from wherever it is hiding,
towards the wooden chair in the middle of the jungle.

I love her because she has a soul.
I love old people in general- sometimes they have caught ten
and sew them together to wear like fur coats
and sit by the fire and drum.
When their arms move the souls flap and bunch up.
The old ones become a thing else, the thing I want to be. 

We the young paint our faces
and dance around trees, naked as anything. 

Some of us won't ever find our souls
but instead, through the dances round and round,
life will spatter through us in bursts like some kind of spin art,
Once you stop you'll find yourselves. 

But she is the Rothko to your Pollock. 

And I, naked as anything, sit in my chair
and wait.

-Citron