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Lady in the leopard skin
Has a fear of plunging in
Traffic like a muddy river,
Starting gives a little shiver.
Gears and peers and fears again
That her horn is not too plain;
Edges to curb, pauses to think
How to move upon the brink.
Go ahead, implores the tender,
Heavy-handed on the fender,
In her ears the engine sings
Yellow-eyed, the lady springs.
From Collected Poems, 1930–83. Copyright © 1983 by Josephine Miles. Used with permission of the University of Illinois Press.
If you had one more swirl you would have a good haircut,
Prosper Prosper.
If you had one more curl you would be a lady,
Prosper.
Why did you buy that flat brown hat?
You look like yourself in that.
What do I look like, what do I look like,
Prosper?
Some of the roofs are of Hopi Indian decision,
They cut square into the sky with plaster,
The tan edge going up two stories past the windows
And turning north and east for straight cement horizon.
Some have old noble English temper peaked,
Alternate red and green shingles but getting the drift,
Gabled to peer out of a possible anciently fallen snow,
And clear superior against gray sky.
The searchlights ask the stars nothing
Among them going,
Tell them nothing, their sign of show
Being for more particular sight below.
Show, show, say they to the sight
Through the lamplight,
Raying cloud, cloud, and cloud to wake and start
The after-dinner heart.
There is stir in the driveways and rustle of departing,
With the hearts starting,
And sight can almost see, ear hear, at the lights’ core
Gathering, shining, what the lights are searching for.