Winging It

she told us that

sometime before thirty

after her third sangria

how she 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 she could

to ink that insight

into the ever expanding

labyrinth of tattoos draping

her arms curving over

her breasts across

her firm core and graceful belly

down to her thighs

weaving about her calves

slipping as fine silk

to the tips of her toes

painting in

indigos and blues

on the body she loves

from where she claims

with immense care

her share of the air

with each cherished breath

a map to her heart