Their Bones for Bread

On the stoop, how many years past,
And he appealed to me to leave
Don’t waste it all, he begged-

pie in the sky
he called You:
A crutch.

And I said goodbye like this:
”Not a crutch, but a wheelchair-
and if you are lame,
a wheelchair is a gift.”

And he understood,
Like so many outside do.

Yet inside
I feel coerced into hobbling
on the broken knee-
and it’s never as good as running-
Never enough
to say I got here on a crutch
and the wheels of grace

No room for the broken
in the engine of advancement,
of pressing out, stamping forward,
Treading the little ones,
and the lame ones,
under the righteous toe.

And what standard of measure
Can I use safely?
Deficient by all lengths, but
I hope for the day

The light that pushes back the night
shines with some radiance of warmth,
some basic human kindness
to those outside,
and those within:

I want to feel safe again.

About viewingcamelot View all posts by viewingcamelot

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