on the horizon.
No longer is she fearful
Bridget, driving to pharmacy
with her guitar slung on the
back seat of her rental car.
No more a victim of her relationships
gone sour. All the hours of the 24.
The sky is her mirror. A surge of
images linked to Freedom, Equality,
Liberty seek her out in this vulnerable
She claims what is due to her.
No longer will she swim against
the tide. A hermit beneath her
She is an America, and a redhead. Godammit!
Her hair is red on her head,
and red on her bush. The trees
Three days from now on Thursday
at 19.30 at Bar Brigitte, in Paris,
France. She will sing her songs of
In front of an audience of critics and
strangers she will sing her self-penned
songs. She will not be afraid of speaking
No sooner said
and a mockingbird appears
to make a mechanical noise.
Not three seconds pass
before her shadow self
mocks her metamorphosis.
Refusing to be altered, she
gazes strongly at her shadow
self and whispers, “Cool it,
“Welcome to the world, child,
this song is for you.”