After you arrive Lulu,
you keep on arriving
again and again.
At the fountain in the park, pigeons eat the mess
the guy who plays the same song has already left.
The ground under your feet is very thin
like you know balance, like you are possessed by an
artistry of being nowhere
like you walk on air
like you could loose everything you carry
in your skeleton
like you could hit bingo on that wild machine that
has nothing in it
except fake coins that clink relentlessly.
Look at the foreign sky.
They X-Ray you for fear
while you dance on an invisible rope,
held between your teeth and your chest,
your pointed toes small and wild.
While the place is cleaned by others,
your accent is thick and daring.
Everybody talks to it like they know where you are from.
Everybody chats with your foreignity
telling themselves stories
you have not heard before
about your purple self.
Everybody knows you are not from here
except you Lulu.