Shaking Hands With Poets

She sings songs with her eyes closed
her voice let's you know
whether their blue or gold
Her words change color all the time

She's spent the better part of her life
shaking hands with poets
with a long hope
that maybe there's a line on a palm,
 that'll remind her of who she is
She doesn't know for sure,
Not anymore.

There's no calendar
with days
marked with okays
to take out the crazy;
So it stays.

Did I mention she'll take a rhyme
like a dime
on a floor?
even when her heart isn't poor;

But sometimes she's the one to leave one
under cushions,
or rolled beneath a coin machine
Spinning on the dirt,
and places where bending may hurt;
Where schedules pull her away
and time is too busy
 to bother to flirt

In her room
there's a closet full
of disorganized letters--
On cold days
she pulls them out
and wears them all at once
like layers of sweaters

Most of her thoughts
are waiting behind
a railroad sign
near an old abandoned train
she wonders
if she leaves to meet them
will she go completely insane?