Skinny Legs

 

That lord of the living room

who ate our bones for tea

and told us we should be glad,

who gave us our heart's desire

then snatched it away,

who played games in the rain,

smacking us with the heavy ball

until we swallowed our laughter --

some god is eating him piece by piece

while he composes oral arguments

from his bed about which pieces will go

and how and why.

He doesn't wonder why we don't

stay near to watch him die.

"Look," my sister says, as he limps

in his johnny down the tiled corridor,

"he's got the same skinny legs we all have."

 

Jan Hickman