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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: