To her own tune

There is a woman

Dressed to the nines

Or what she would consider tens

And maybe others zero

With pinks and blues

And bright, bright greens

And hues that women her age 

"Should not wear."

With bright taffeta flower in her hair

And headphones always in her ears

Or on the days she totes the cart
To Pathmark,

It bears a small pink boombox

Blasting funk and soul loud enough

For her to hear, but not to bother

Those she passes, who, inevitably

Stare with curiosity or, usually,

Looks of disgust

Through dark eyes that match

Dark clothes

And darker souls.

And when she passes, it's not

A walk so much as a

Bop, and groove, as,

Keeping time to her own heart

She always smiles;

Always knows that others' looks

Don't matter, and further, what 

Others think of her own looks

Matters less still.

I wait for her sometimes
While sitting in my window
When I'm blue

To see her wearing and listening to
Similar blues, but so vastly different

To inspire my own to realize its potential

To be brighter,

And conceived anew.