She’s a girl
who spends most of her life
lying flat on her back
like an upturned palm
that’s begging for
some of luck’s spare change.
She regards her room
as a kind of coffin
for those not quite dead.
Which makes the house
a mausoleum,
the entire surrounds,
a graveyard-to be.
And her parents, one brother,
one sister, make for
some jowl-faced undertakers.
Yet there’s always the window.
Her eyes aren’t disabled at least.
And she can only look up.
The moon may be as useless as she is.
But stars light their far fires on cue.
They get such brilliant notions.
And her imagination isn’t paralyzed either.
It has such legs at night,
it can go anywhere.
Her body’s as dead as old boots.
But something of her is alive and free.
Folks whisper how the therapy’s
going as well as can be expected.
And that’s without knowing
what the true therapy is.
About the Author: John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.