Angel

The woman I know
bathes in uncertain pools,
and shifts her dirty, sun stitched skin
in swamps of sweat left behind by her traveling entourage.
She has no home,
and I envy her, but only for that.
She smells
like urine, and train track tar,
she is the queen of the night,
because at night, there is no sun
to highlight her unhealthy glow,
and there is no sun, to melt her work,
into tiny puddles,
only causing her to desire another bath
in the rust of her metal.
In the blood of her work.
her permiscuous ego,
shaded with fear and tiring lonesome trips
back and forth to the watering hole,
like a buffalo on speed.
but that is only a sneak peak,
I could never get to know that part.
I only am permitted to see the hercules painted across her chest,
etched with sincere anger,
I can see the intense stabbing her tattoo artist inflicted upon her chest.
He must have loved her,
because the lines grow thick with rage,
and soft with forgiveness in the same second of etched emotion.
I can picture her:
then-
Tanned skin, less remorseful,
soft lips,
less scabbed
but still,
swearing,
but more,
forgiving,
more,
youthful,
She is the reason all cats would purr,
and I know,
before the smell,
before the overwhelming hate of men,
she was why men loved.
I see her in passing-
now,
while she lifts heavy things,
She swears at me,
in an uplifting, preachy sort of way.
Tells me what I NEED.
as if I didn't know.
She grabs my hand,
not out of anger,
but out of respect,
we ran from the same tribe,
and the both of us
though, entirely different,
are still running from something,
making us bold.
but she answers to no one.
and speaks only to me,
and for that,
I envy no one.
but me.