My elegant carriage
is a worn-out old wagon,
spoked wheels and covered top
painted in garish hues
of reds and blues and yellows,
all bright, alluring;
all fading, weak;
all cracked.

To be sure,
the carnival lasts for awhile
when I come to town,
driving the one-horse team
with ease
from my slatted, wooden seat.
They are always glad to see me,
always drawn in -
always fools.

They forget my history.
They easily forget,
in the heat of my fire
and the magic of the stars,
my past
and my inexorable future.
They forget that I leave
exactly when times are best,
preferring that
to waiting for the bad.

I am the gypsy of the heart -
exotic and mysterious,
a teller of tales,
a reader of fortunes,
a weaver of lies.
Beautiful, dangerous,
and always,
in the end,
a theif
and a wanderer.

A lone wanderer.

02/18/2004

Author's Note: Topic from my sister, Katrina Cobb. Hmm....yeah. Unsure of this one. It somewhat turned out like I meant, but not quite. Feedback?

On a sidenote, I would like to say that I have met and been in the homes of actual gypsies (in Granada, Spain) and some of them certainly fit the stereotype. Maybe not as theives, but certainly as mysterious and trouble-making. One of the little kids offered to draw a butterfly on my hand and instead drew a penis. If that gives you any idea.

Posted on 02/19/2004
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