Our heads boil,
red patches smirk on arms and faces;
bedroom’s cool as we lie
not pretending to be dead.
Lamp-light crucifies the floor,
half-lost on the oblong off-cut carpet,
bought from the unsmiling Provident man.
Rain flutters the window,
the doctor leaves,
my mother discovers,
polio is sun burn.
If you have any comments on this poem, Tom Kelly would be
pleased to hear from you.