Arsenic Lobster poetry journal        Issue Six   2004
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street sonnet *
Rhonda C Poynter

for my father, dying in the prison infirmary

Old Man, you sleep through my arrival.
I need no apology;
I understand the act: a heartís survival
In a place it didnít have to be.
I look through the bureau drawers,
Push the control buttons on your bed
And ring the nurse for juice. Iím bored,
Blowing smoke rings above your head.
Old Man, Iím still the crazy one
Who never meant to be
Standing after all the rest have gone,
But you taught me well Ė Iím a scrapper, too. Youíll see,

Lions could be loosed in these hallways and nobody would care.
White hearts line the doorway as I hold my shadow and comb back
          its hair.

* first appeared in Start the Car

About Rhonda C Poynter

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