I don't really dabble in poetry - I've always thought I was pretty lousy at it. I just write it sometimes for some inane reason. Now, I've inadvertently joined the Poetry Society on campus - oops - so I think I'll try to see what I need to work on or whether I just need to go home back to fiction. 

___



She sits, her legs crossed at the ankle,

her legs falling apart, the pain a part of her,

her joints unmoving and her hands all up

as she talks on and on so that she can’t think on

her life, her day, her family. 

Her blue eyes are always wide and reflect 

strange lights,

strange ideas,

she watches us strangely and comments on

what we say about our day and she’ll

tell us ten times what she has to say about her day

but she’s not really saying anything at all.

She says my name three times, 

she cleans the glass three times,

she folds the clothes three times,

we bond three times and then she can’t

stand me anymore and she calls me on

the phone three days a week

and she tells me three horrifying things

like my Uncle’s bad heart

or how that girl I don’t like, her father died,

or how there’s nothing I can do about the bad things.

Then she’ll say goodbye three times,

because she can’t seem to be able to stop talking,

and when the phone clicks

I’ll feel sick, I’ll feel that sense of home

that I don’t welcome and

I’ll feel guilty three times before 

I forget about her.