Bianchi

Before I knew her I heard about her. She was born in Eastern lands but French blood ran in her veins. She was new movement in an old frame; people turned there heads when she went by. To the store, to the school, she turned over distance to the minutes, they slowly ate her up. 

When she was born They called her by a name, emblazed their words on her side. "Words of Love.." She thought. This she showed to the world, belly up and soft side out. "She's really going places now," They said, "There, that is the look of the New Age, and we want everyone to know - we want them to know we made her who she is." So They sent her to America, because that is the place where all examples for the new age are sent. The ideas, though, trickle in too fast and pool at the door, they create a mess in the winter time, look sloppy in the spring - the americans in new york complain; "We are up to our heads in talent, Our toes in innovation!"

So this is where ideas go to get stuck.

And there she stayed, I hear, for years. The rains came, and went, and came again. The words of love She kept carefully displayed on her side began to peel off, letter by letter. With rain comes rust. A thing like her, made to move, was forced to sit. I am told that when someone is made to do a certain thing in life, they must do it or they risk a pile-up in the soul. Let the poet write! This I am told. 

I found her in a corner of America; hiding her belly, hard side out. She's beautiful, I thought. "She's not worth it," They whispered, "Those words of love aren't ours any longer. You can't un-rain the thunderstorms that have let loose over her head. There is damage there, and oh, the baggage!" 

She can't be more than 20 pounds soaking wet, I thought. I guess thats baggage I can deal with. I approached.
"I'm an old idea," She warned me, "I'm just steel in an aluminum world."

"But you were made to move," I said, my eyes looking down. "All you need is new shoes."

She was beautiful; "My name," She said, "is Lorena,"