Purple Cactus

Margaret was sick of deflecting

the expectations of her cohorts. Mall crowds were

clouds of pestering mosquitoes, “me, me, Me, Me,”

to her ear. She decided that all her failures were due

to the piedmont. Margaret cut ties with her non-friends,

all of them, that’s what they are

and sold her anchors. She disguised herself with

the name Avatar, and transplanted herself

to the land of big sky where clouds are

band-aids and people are

different.

Now, Avatar pretends to be carefree

liking the young bohemians, drinking

in the culture of this new, ancient breed. Her True People. The façade

of tribal colors screams

her false solemnity.

Eureka! The same people. Anywhere

Avatar goes, complaint is her happiness. Even now,

Avatar lives in the same theatrical town on the opposite

coast, where she can drink her soy-milk latte and point

with her etiquette finger at the people

she dislikes, wearing the royal foam. Yea, though

Margaret is content, the purple cactus queen!