Winging It

you told us that

sometime before thirty

after your third sangria

how you realized

that everybody

here in the bar

in brooklyn

in most of new york

throughout greater america

perhaps even the world

was just mostly

winging it

for the short time

before they move on

and spent what you could

to ink that insight

into the ever expanding

labyrinth of tattoos draping

your arms curving over

your breasts across

your firm core and graceful belly

down to your thighs

weaving about your calves

slipping as fine silk

to the tips of your toes

painting in

indigos and blues

on the body you love

from where you claim

with immense care

your share of the air

with each cherished breath

a map to your heart