You can tell she hails from a different,

More classic,

Older

Americana,

With those pin-up lips

And the curve of her face,

That reddish hair

And those red lips,

A rouge like a summer solstice sunrise

Sent from God

To warn the Sheppard,

A color so saturated

I’d swear she’d just taken a bite

Of that forbidden fruit,

Or suckled from the sweet breast of life,

Turning her red, red,

Red as the dawn,

As the fire engine speeding away

Into the twilight

To save the farmer

Who failed to heed the sky’s blood-red warning

That morning.