I have me a sister whose every report
Is she’s fit as a fiddle and couldn’t be better.
Her world is the best of all possible places,
No matter she could be as mad as a hatter.

There’s nary an ache or in truth a discomfort
Can shake her resolve to be perky and bright.
A blissful deflection is her go-to gambit
For saying as little as naught of her plight.

“Your name would be what now? solicits the nurse.
“I think I’ve mislaid it,” my sibling replies.
Inflexibly wordless she knits up her eyebrow,
Repairs to the haunt where a pet bluebird flies.

Not even if you shook a very big stick
Would my dear baby sis move herself to disclose
What dwells in her head at this moment or that,
It’s doubtful that even her very self knows.

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