Poem, 10/3/14

She was made for a life in bed.
Often she thought, she’d missed her calling
as a prostitute
or consumptive.

Dying slowly over years,
a public thing.

Where friends and voyeurs
would come and visit,
sit vigil beside her bed.

Or, in the case of the professional choice
 – lady of the evening –
her visitors would climb in
and play.

One way or another
she would not be alone.

As it was, she just stayed in bed
and dreamt of other lives,
of the world outside,

and made no plans at all.

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