Late at night, when the lights are low,
When the kids have been put to bed,
That’s when Emma wakes…
When Emma embraces her Weird…
They talk, they dance … They travel to France
They stroll down the Champs-Élysées,
wearing yesterday’s summer clothes.
There’s wine and water with pretentious names
and lovers that flirt while the day still burns.
And ere the night is over she hugs her Weird… and remembers…
The living and the loving
And all and everything…
And nothing, and something.
And here in suburbia is a picket fence.
White and bright.
Coated in Weatherproof Deluxe Stellar White.
Here is where Emma gets to walk,
and look at her Normal
whenever he lingers
I wrote this a long time ago.
I might as well dedicate it to everyone who defiantly refused to conform to the illusion of conformity.