A living statue looks out of her son’s bedroom window

A living statue looks out of her son’s bedroom window

I do dryad-face; spindly: stilt walk,

freeze, like in the Barcelona square: enticed folk

to take photos with a dip, body sway,

then saw them off with a fingernail jive. Nearly twenty, he stays

in the small room where the PSP works better;

shuns the twitter of sunlight, mutter

of shadows. In here a gross toy bear

headbutts a melamine cupboard. Bare-

footed, I move back to the bathroom, not even half

a Statue of Liberty despite spray silver hair,

appalled at eye-bags, leg veins; turn tail on spliff ends

chucked on the conservatory roof. I want to be eight feet high.

Drag nail -snagged silver skins up over my thighs.

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