you keep on arriving

again and again.

At the fountain in the park, pigeons eat the mess

the guy who plays the same song has already left.

The ground under your feet is very thin

tread Lulu,

like you know balance, like you are possessed by an

artistry of being nowhere

like you walk on air

like you could loose everything you carry

in your skeleton

like you could hit bingo on that wild machine that

has nothing in it

except fake coins that clink relentlessly.

Look at the foreign sky.

They X-Ray you for fear

while you dance on an invisible rope,

held between your teeth and your chest,

your pointed toes small and wild.

While the place is cleaned by others,

your accent is thick and daring.

Everybody talks to it like they know where you are from.

Everybody chats with your foreignity

telling themselves stories

you have not heard before

about your purple self.

Everybody knows you are not from here

except you Lulu.