ANNE'S KID.

TWO YOUNG KIDS IN A NURSING HOME IN 1950S.

She saw the kids on the slide,

each with their own

burden to bear:

burn scars,

post operative

patients,

cancer victims

counting the last days

on their thin fingers,

a kid with an eye gone,

lid sewn.

And she, Anne,

amputee, bad

tempered b***h,

12 year old,

big bosomed,

fine of remaining limb,

scanning the rest,

seated

in the wheel chair,

Skinny Kid behind,

hands on the handles,

warm breath

on her neck.

She was bored,

sun too bright,

kids too noisy,

nurse fart-arsing

near by,

taking temperatures,

changing wound

bandages, crouched

to see eye to eye,

thighs showing

stocking tops.

Hey, Kid,

she said,

get a peak at that,

indicating the thighs

and stocking tops

on view.

The Kid, thin arms

and legs, short hair,

11 year old, stared,

took in stocking legs,

black, warming,

looked away.

Don't get to see

that every day,

Kid, unless

you're their old man

or fond lover,

Anne said,

grinning ear to ear.

Skinny Kid,

stood, loyal,

whispered into

her neck,

want me to push you

to the beach?

sure, Kid,

get me

from these wounded ones,

these dying doomed,

let me smell

the salt and sea,

let me hear

the sea's song.

So the Kid, pushed

the chair, arms

out stretched,

over lawn,

down path,

she singing,

rude lyrics,

her one remaining leg

rocking

to the chairs' move,

the stump, showing

where her skirt ended,

shook and rocked.

Out the back gate,

onto the path

by the beach,

out of the nurse's sight,

or sound of voice's reach.

She thinking

of the Kid's

loyal touch,

his heaving her

from chair to bed,

the night before,

his thin arms

clutching tight

in case she fell,

the warm bed

embracing,

holding her down,

he standing there,

gazing at her

bare stump

with that innocent

stare.

He thinking,

as he pushed along,

how red

her stump was

the night before,

how the thigh

of her other leg

was white as snow

compared,

going red

as he stared.