Ash Tat

She looked like a Portland girl,
sitting there on the Trax,
her multi-colored hair
held back from a no-makeup face
by a wide organic cotton kerchief.
Bare-armed
bra-less
wearing bike shorts of one pattern
and a tight halter dress of another,
the only thing bigger than her smile
was the tattoo on her left shoulder,
a rare and fantastic-hued bird,
the kind you find
in a rainforest.
‘Love your tat,’ I said.
‘Thanks,’ she beamed,
though tiny clouds entered, stage right.
‘We all got one after my dad died…
even mom…
we mixed some of his ashes in the ink.’
‘How cool is that?’ I said.
‘I hope my kids do the same. In fact,’
I said,
‘ash tats for all who want them.
Thank you for that beautiful idea.’
I’d missed my stop
talking to the Tat Girl,
but I’m glad I did.

April 21, 2012
Salt Lake City