Iron Lung
My window shut,
blocking Summer’s fierce gaze
and brown haze from distant flaming timbers.
One machine cools the room,
then my cats and I may nap.
Another, like a Vegas magician,
pulls gallons of water
from the air we breathe.
My window shut,
glazed by Winter’s cruel lick,
outside sheets of ice and broken branches.
Furnace air and a space heater
blanket us with dry heat.
Eyes itch, hands and heels crack,
another device weaves soothing water
into the air we breathe.
I met a man, years ago,
who lived inside an iron lung.
It did the work of breathing for him.
His hapless head stuck out one end
of what seemed a metal casket on wheels.
With cheeky laughter, he read everything
and used his mouth to write.
I crack open my window.
(published in “Boats Against the Current”, 2023)
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