Thoughts on a skeleton resident in the physio therapist's surgery which I am visiting at the moment for my broken arm. Please note he is plastic. I was informed that real skeletons are very expensive and difficult to find.
Not a stitch of clothing
Just shameless
From the tip of his toes
To the top of his head
It does not matter
Has nothing really to hide
"Who cares?" He thinks
Thinks with the bones of knowledge
Real thinking left him when he was stripped
Stripped of all knowledge of the past
Does he know what the present is
I don’t think it bothers him
Life goes on around him
With his back to the window
Perhaps sometimes he turns and watches
Seeing the parts he has, moving
Amongst those that hide them under their skin
And then he asks, who is shameless?
Me or the others
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