for Joy Lowe
Joy is dying,
lying comatose
on a hospital bed
in Franklin Square.
Joy is dying
& there’s nothing
I can say or do,
pray, perhaps,
but even that
is no guarantee.
Joy is dying
& all I can really
do is remember
the fun we had
getting ready
to go dancing
on a Sunday night:
Destinations, Chaps,
All three floors
of PT Flaggs.
Do you remember
the Powercore?
I watched her
then, so full of life,
vigor & vim in every writhe
& spin, strawberry
blonde locks of hair
grabbing at the air
the way I wished
they would want
to grab me.
Joy is dying,
I have no time
to say goodbye,
instead I will remember
the dancing, remember
a young man’s crush,
remember the flames
of her eyes.
I want Joy to live
forever
inextinguishable
in my soul.
