september's son

Seeping into me every year
as the September sun fades
seductively subtle dancing around me,
like a shop girl,
persisting, insisting
but I'm resisting her pleas to change
I become me
the wilted withering wallflower that doesn't quite blend...
amongst the Lilies, a real tumbleweed
pulled from my roots by the harsh audacity of
f.......... a........ l....... l...... .....
driven-
rolled about by the w i n d
aimlessly wandering,
wondering
while that pop.you.liar
stream of consciousness drifts past every October ...
November
halts
with the refracted reflections
in store windows toting the invitations
of preciousness and precocious precariousness,
that wears like vintage fashion on the minds of the hopelessly ordinary who've never
felt
anything
beneath the surface.
I don’t need your under.standing
or pieces of your kindness, sacked,
like brittle glass beads.
I’ve got my protean-self to reinvent;
like last decades jeans.