Alien.

What they never show in sci-fi movies
is the alien's glee at being one of
her kind. ET may get lonesome, but she's
tingling with excitement right down to her
light bulb finger-tip at being only
one, a singular stretch-neck-baldy
mid the hairy-heads with dead-bulb-fingers.
The solitary pale face, only woman
on the jeep that's slaloming the muddy track
between the vine-webbed walls of palms, I'm milk
in a coffee colored crowd. Freed from pursuit
of goals, all sense of destination is
suspended. Here suffices. Now's enough.
I shine in jungle-night, an alien finger.