© Dec. 1, 2017. All Rights Reserved.
Abnormal paranormal, so informal,
It’s a miracle.
(She’s not a garden-variety woman)
I stood watching the unwatched stalkers.
I lived living a lifeless life, here.
I’m so alone with drunk sleepwalkers,
I was numb, but now I’ll disappear.
My normal’s not your normal.
(They’re breathing! They’re talking!)
There’s a garden in a trailer truck.
Over the husband, the widow plants;
Then, outside the wheeler for good luck
But there’s so many ants and she chants.
My normal’s not your normal.
(They’re breathing! They’re talking!)
The wheeler moves; she fears going out.
Bushes grow above the clear windows.
She lurks during a blackout and drought
Where the desert has large cockatoos.
My normal’s not your normal.
(They’re breathing! They’re talking!)
Her unrequited passion for planting
Haunts deeply like the 8th, forbidden sea.
No seeds to accompany her panting
To crying under a burning marquee.
My normal’s not your normal.
(They’re breathing! They’re talking!)
Often, she drives, but nature’s yesterday
With golden compasses surrounding her
Engraved to trees like everything to say,
Deader than a sad, thinking saboteur.
(She’s not a garden-variety woman)
Abnormal paranormal, so informal,
It’s a miracle.
Isaiah Lawrence 