FOR ANNE
Joyce Carbone
Half way to the moon,
I stopped, tredded ice-cold air,
paused to let self catch-up
the way Anne's book did
as it reached from the shelf,
begged pity to take an orphan
rejected, home --
I did, and searched slowly,
found Anne's reason tucked inside,
“I remember we named you Joyce
So we could call you Joy.”
This small milky mouse was stunned,
mesmerized by happenstance.
No, or is it yes?
Resounds in brain maze
lost in the wilderness
of bad boys&badder girls.
That phrase beckoned.
“We named you Joy.”
Waved lengths jumped, arched
a pyramidial rick-rack
up and down my spine.
Nothing is new under the sun.
My eyes leaked
as I read Anne's pain;
The words reaching out;
words she left for me.
