The globe sits upon the second tier of the girl’s bookshelf. Upon her wheelchair, she marvels at eye level its contour and with her index finger twirls it, making the globe dance while taking in all of world’s infinitive land marks. Her fingers replace her legs as it rides atop cerulean currents, frolics among pastoral fields, flounce speedily through theaters of war, treads carefully amid ancient ruins, lingers nigh the avenue of world attractions. Ensuing her brazen wanderlust’s lead, the tapping of her tumultuous fingertips, she girdles the globe in vain hopes.
I pity the girl who doesn’t realize her legs shall be cooped perpetually in her wheelchair.