by Lyn Lifshin
plastic of course,
not wooden, leaning
against the gray wall
near the stain from
the Vaseline to make
it fit you as I kept
trying to. From your
all night radio show
I knew about the
grenade, those years
in the hospital. And
I knew I wanted the
you that talked from
midnight to dawn,
told stories of your
first day out, how
your prosthesis twisted
out at an odd angle,
knocked the man
on a stool off with its
swing and a little boy
saw it and said Mama
that man is walking
forward and backward
at the same time. I lured
you with words, with
poems. Did I wonder
how it would feel
touching? It’s a blur I
don’t remember. Only
how I slithered from
leather jeans as you
held me said you know
Lyn, I can get closer,
deeper. How there are
things he said there
are, Honey, some things
I can do better
without it
*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
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