Sixteen Lines in Search of Being Boss

She pitchpipes her clocks then removes her socks mid-day just in time to sing.

Then slips out of something less comfortable in search of a hot bath.

One of her personalities lies down in tepid water, not pleased

but ready to soak her back and back of the neck and neck and feet

in Epsom salts and gooey lavender body wash like some far sea.

Her bath cap is tightly protective of her recently washed hair. 

Awesome hair said the close friend stylist who ought to know the difference

between platinum and the swish of every color still there.

This abundant hair, plus body, is a shell that still wants her alive.

The other of her personalities believes that she should (yes) dance.

And exquisitely the way she discerns whom to fall in love with.

Her still warm moist feet step on gray throws that protect her from the cool tile.

It is always morning in air around her where she recites a song.

A song she made from dreamed voices punctuated by woodpecker pocks.

Who cares about the pulse of what's been composed and lost let's improvise

Lost limber lost frost lost genuflection to the cost of doing dross.