Kathleen –A Portrait
By Tom Robbins
Ah, Kathleen, inventor of the Irish H –bomb,
Cross between a buttercup and a raging bull.
In some more exalted meadow now, lip-glossed
And pissing off the angels,
Then cooking them such heavenly dinners,
Of lamb and duck and oyster mushrooms,
That they wished they’d taken her home sooner.
Her golden body, that loved to dance,
Cheek-to-cheek with danger.
Her lavender mind, that decorated
With romance and wild scheme-a-rama
Everything and everyone it touched,
Both swallowed by the great gray mystery now,
As fog sometimes swallows the rain.
But her spirit remains here,
Parked – illegally, of course –
In the driveway of our memory,
Still racing it’s mercurial engine,
Like a 400-horsepower car
That she’s lost the license to drive.
***
By Tom Robbins
Ah, Kathleen, inventor of the Irish H –bomb,
Cross between a buttercup and a raging bull.
In some more exalted meadow now, lip-glossed
And pissing off the angels,
Then cooking them such heavenly dinners,
Of lamb and duck and oyster mushrooms,
That they wished they’d taken her home sooner.
Her golden body, that loved to dance,
Cheek-to-cheek with danger.
Her lavender mind, that decorated
With romance and wild scheme-a-rama
Everything and everyone it touched,
Both swallowed by the great gray mystery now,
As fog sometimes swallows the rain.
But her spirit remains here,
Parked – illegally, of course –
In the driveway of our memory,
Still racing it’s mercurial engine,
Like a 400-horsepower car
That she’s lost the license to drive.
***