cherry bomb girl

some lady outside Sidewalk
just called me the cherry bomb girl,
and I’m not sure what that means
other than an obvious reference
to the bomber jacket I am wearing
covered with red cherries and green leaves,
white flowers with brown stems.
I presume a cherry bomb girl
is half pinup girl, half rockabilly.
she smokes cigarettes and wears Doc
Martens, and I’m halfway
there but to be honest
I don’t quite have the eye makeup,
let alone the spoons
to fully pull her off
today.

but I take the label
nonetheless. “I’ll tell you a secret;
I’m the coolest person
in that room,” I lie to the lady
and her friend, who said not one word
to me before her friend
got here. part of me
believes it, and that’s the part
that speaks with such laid-back, ironic
sincerity that they both laugh
and seemingly believe me.

yeah, I’m
real cool. I’m
not in school. all these people
inside my favorite venue
are friends of a guy I met twice
at the open mic. it’s
all good. I’m
drunk. I’m the cherry bomb girl,
and I don’t feel
any loneliness or pain.