THIRTY SEVEN
Dolores Maxwell.com
 
I'm Not Convinced

He's a good lad really.
Takes good care of her.
Really.
She's well looked after.
The phones don't work.
The doors don't open.
She's not sure why.
She's not exactly confused but
she doesn't understand why.
Things don't work the way they should.
Technology.
Too much for her to ponder upon.
All that computer stuff.
Sure what would she do with a mobile?
Too much for her to squint and scroll through.
A regular phone is fine.
It doesn't always work.
Doesn't always ring.
She wishes it would.
But he takes such good care of her. Really.
Ensures she takes a nap when she should.
Funny how the tea makes her sleepy now.
She'd like to see the early morning sun,
watch the moon light on the back wall, even hear
the train rattling past.
Tiredness seeps into the bones.
Into the limbs.
She misses the other children.
But sure they've busy lives.
Could she tell them she was depressed?
Could she tell them his holding her arm
sometimes hurts, sometimes pains?
She doesn't like the squeezing.
But you don't talk about those things.
You don't share your pain.
You keep it deep within.
Never let it out.
Why?
Isn't there freedom to be felt,
when the air touches and frees
all that hurts?
Doesn't it lighten the load?
Yes, a cliché.
But doesn't it appear weightless,
Floating?
It must not.
Because if it did wouldn't she try?
Wouldn't she want that for herself?
Doesn't she now deserve it?
Instead, there is him.
Him that takes such good care of her.
The others just aren't around.
Scared off.
Frightened.
Just like her.


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