Molly

The electric ginger 

who steered my strawberry-blond

bed-headed mornings in ’86.

Cinnamon dotted my oatmeal

like her freckles, and I’d think:

What would Molly wear? 

A hat, pale paisley short sleeve top,

and a black wrap skirt 

with a pair of rider boots,

boots that rubbed my porcelain skin

as I ran to the bus stop.

I hated pink. 

I didn’t feel pretty in it,

but pink puffy lips, I wanted.

I wished I had half of her lips,

succulent like the leaves on a Jade;

this was before Sephora 

and the assortment of waste-of-money

lip-plumping lipsticks.

Oh, how Molly could pout!

Squint and pout to express her

disapproval without saying a word.

I refused to be known as a Ringlet. 

I was better than that,

or at least I thought I was.

I thought if she only  knew me, she’d

fold me into the Brat Pack. 

We’d go cruising in her light pink

1959 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia

and blast The Rave-Ups:

You lost a lot when you lost me

Six paperback books and a dying tree.

Alas, I was an ass to think

we’d ever meet, let alone

be friends. 

But she did give me something,

something I’ve carried and kept with me:

The courage to swim alone

in a sea of conformity.