Why would she agree to such a pose? 
To appease the painter’s vision? To crawl
out of her wheelchair on
a windy autumn day to be seen 
the only point of interest in an 
otherwise dull scene?
When first he framed it in 
his mind, did he think she
wouldn't mind his depiction of
a woman who can only drag
her crippled feet? Toward what?
A field of wheat she cannot harvest? A long-
abandoned house? A lifetime of defeat?
Later, did she long to be erased
from his depiction of futility?
Probably. But then he titled it.
                        

Restrained with string on legs and wings and skewered to a
Ferris wheel – not that they’ll enjoy the view – 
rows of rotisserie chickens brown like fat bathers on a beach
sans sand. As they rotate, their plump parts drip, producing
a pleasant sizzling sound, and soon an aroma reminiscent 
of home draws me to the warm window to watch. With a couple
of sides, one of these guys could be supper and also provide
meaty treats for the dog and fat snacks for the cat. I like that. 
                        

These clowns arrayed in orange and black
bop on their noses along a ridge of plastic rocks
and wave red fins, like aerialists just beneath 
the big top – if it were top side down and underwater
where fake tiki torches bubble and blink 
as if in Morse code to ask, “What fish?” 
Could stripes so orange 
with V’s so black and fins so red
proclaim some other fish instead?