This is not poetry, I swear it.

You stare at a purple sweater behind glass.
It is surrounded by the winter-grey of trees.
You stare for so long.

I take every corner like a dance floor.
Volume is up to 20 and I can’t stop moving.
Can’t stop moving.
Can’t stop moving.
Bopbopbop.
Waiting for the blinking white walker to let me gogogo.
I sing along with my lips, but not my voice.
Shaking my head like I am shoeing away a bee.
My hair smells like my Aunt Wanda did when I was little,
when she
was one who beautifies others.
I used to think she was so shiny.

He drops his blue hat
in the middle of the street.
I pick it up and run after him,
even though I am a scavenger
by nature. And my nature tells me to keep it.

My reflection surprises me again.

Can’t stop moving.
Can’t stop moving.
Can’t stop moving.