For Florence

In your prison, known euphemistically as a group home
The so-called attendants shrink away from your feather-light touch.
They are afraid you might be human;
Afraid you might fly out of the box they stuffed you into,
But no; we've ridden horses at summer camp together.
You've played the guard at the gates of Oz!
You know how to play and be as child-like as ever, ageless even now.
You can still want with all your heart and skin
Something as simple as a playful pat or hug
While others want you to be normal and lonely.
You've taught me to be open and trusting.
Is that what your so-called care-takers are afraid of?



© Teresa Cochran 10/29/02