her plastic red boots

it's not the cats,

it's never really about the cats.
the innumerable
amount of them.

the old horse, the old dog,

or the fact that she has no
tv
in her house,

or radio.

it's not the plastic red boots she
wears
to keep
the snakes from biting her legs

when raking the leaves.
it's much more than that.

the mismatched chairs,
the streak of white in a mane
of black
hair.

the mattress on the floor.
the solar panels on her roof.

it isn't about that
she can recite Shakespeare
at the drop of a hat.

it's much more than any of that.
she is a giant cup of crazy,

no doubt, but she's fun
and unpredictable,

in a temporary kind of way.