Echolalia in Babeland

Pull into the driveway

to a porch full of woman.

I smell cigarettes and wine but 

ask when will the music begin.

This crowd is so different

besides the binary pairs.

Leggings in all patterns, 

all the gem colored hair. 

I recognize one man

in a turquoise bolo tie

tuning his guitar 

under a sky of rainbow lights.

But I get uncomfortable, 

I know I don't fit in. 

Deep Thoughts aren't cool enough

my writing will never win. 

Then pink hair walks up

with a jar of moonshine,

a silver velvet skirt,

handing me welcoming eyes. 

So I find a seat 

I can stay for the show.

Others are sitting on the ground

this echolalia they know.

She looks like Esso sounds

She sounds like Apple feels

She feels like Mitchell sings

...Hey mama won't you come down

Hey mama won't you come down...

But she was born from grace.