By John Grey
There’s nothing sorrier looking
than a turtle on its back,
its reddish belly upward,
legs waving in the air in panic.
I can’t think of any human equivalent.
There’s no position
that my body can get itself into
that I cannot untangle.
If everything of me is intact,
then I’m not helpless.
Angry, sure.
Depressed, of course.
But at least I can roll myself over,
stand upright,
do something.
So, I kneel,
pick up the turtle by its shell,
right the trembling reptile,
watch it plod its way
toward the nearby pond.
I have come through
for a forlorn creature.
There is a limit
to my uselessness.
About the Author:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, River And South and Flights. Latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. Work upcoming inLevitate, Writer’s Block and Trampoline.