Luke Poem by Jane L. Carman

I picture you
legs bent
feet on your highs
their permanent resting place
wrists on shoulders
hands twisted
with the arthritic arch
or an ancient granny
your head tilted back
to meet a shoulder
brown fireflies
your eyes danced
as if your body lived
through them
it did
assisted by tubes
twisted like serpents
from stomach,
face and arms
not even
the king of telethons
could save you

(formerly titled 'Jerry Lewis Could Never Raise Money Like the Bush Administration')