This Kind of Girl

Every once in a while,
in this wild life of mine
I’d wonder:
If I were a girl
what kind of girl would I be?

(And…sugar, spice are certainly nice
but here they’d hardly suffice.)


But I too highly doubt
that you’d find, if you peeked
in my mind
anything close to snips,
snails, or the tail of a pup.

(And woman scorned has wrath,
but I said girl, not psychopath.)


So, as far as I know,
I’d be a girl on the go,
who’d either be
always late, put together,
but never both.

(And time flies—doubly so
when you try to arrange your hair.)


I’d be a girl adorned,
adored, for colour I’d bring
everywhere
where my skirts might flare,
teasing hairy, muscular legs.

(And compliments, daily—
on my outfits, elegant taste.)


But don’t think that my brain
would go to waste; far from it—
I’d have wit
I’d run circles around
men dominating my field.

(And, speaking of men—
I’d know just when to press or yield.)


In short, you might expect
an elegant diva with brains
who would not
know of restraint,
dressed in yellow toe to neck.

(And she’d light up a room, and silence
great crowds when she’d speak.)


Sitting here, it occurs to me:
Dreaming is for the meek.
(And besides
I think I know who I’d be.)
I’ll be just the kind of girl

I already am—
this kind of girl, like me.