You’re wondering what’s cradled in my arms,
what spirits swaddled in my paper bag.
You put your groceries in a family car,
but watch me as I stride across the lot.
Your hair turns with your head, a fitting frame
to mount your gaze of scorn—or is it envy?
My hair hangs free, with silver I don’t hide.
I walk untroubled to my truck, then smile
and roll by, waving like a pageant queen.
A woman loosed… free and flaunting my sin