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by Sherry Sheehan


If I were a tree,
perpetually peeling;
if I were a house,
paint sloughing off too;

if I were a road
with ruts enough
to split thin tires,
a smart crew

would soon be hired
to make repairs,
sew up tears,
absorb stares. 

If I were snow,
each flake would whiten,
leaving behind no
red to frighten.
If I were a cloud,
there'd be rain.

How cool, how smooth
the new terrain,
all inflammation
rinsed and tamed.
In my ‘If I Were’ world,
skin would never complain.


Sherry Sheehan