Turn

The door stands. The handle waits.

Turn and push, or turn and walk away.

She rocks slowly forward, lazily, lazily.

“It’s not your turn,” her father’s voice says.

A glance over her shoulder, no he isn’t there.

That voice is in your head, she thinks, but still, it feels so real.

Her imagination pirouettes as she turns around to say,

Spin me all you want, make me dizzy with your words,

But one day I’m going to run away, never to return.

Ignore me long enough, and I’ll make you reach across the table.

Turn me only for your pleasure, and I’ll roll right out the door.

A pause. No, not today. Runaways have to go so far.

This is what she’s waiting for. This is the reveal.

To show up at their door, to remind them what she’s for.

To serve and help, to give and share, to spin around the table.

And now she’s back again, always true to her apt name.

Hear her long-awaited phrase of turn,

Lazy Susan has returned.