deepundergroundpoetry.com
her.
I saw an old wheelchair, dusty
forgotten in the corner
of an even older thrift store.
Lost in imagination, I saw her
pull it next to my front window,
a giant, ego-shaped blot
in the view of my glorious sun.
She scratches her shitty sketches
of my wind chimes, turning
to ask almost wistfully, on a sigh.
Why, should she have an Etsy store?
All with legs held downward,
as if she’s a 1920’s starlet, having
dramatically lost the use of her legs.
forgotten in the corner
of an even older thrift store.
Lost in imagination, I saw her
pull it next to my front window,
a giant, ego-shaped blot
in the view of my glorious sun.
She scratches her shitty sketches
of my wind chimes, turning
to ask almost wistfully, on a sigh.
Why, should she have an Etsy store?
All with legs held downward,
as if she’s a 1920’s starlet, having
dramatically lost the use of her legs.
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