Wheelchair

In a few seconds
We will pass that spot
Where alone on the second floor Seated against the windows
You scribbled in a book
Feeling a million miles away from anything familiar
Other than the feeling that things are unfamiliar
And people are awkward bags of meat
Walking through all this
With perfectly good legs, most of them
Drinking and carrying on
Pointing at things with a billiards cue
Somewhere on Austin Avenue
Not really living and breathing
But certainly not hanging from a hook
Yet somewhere in the streaky skyline outside
The outline of a pulley system
With giant wheels and gears
Is showing its silly strings again
All perfectly diagonal
In juxtaposed parallels to where you are
Now and always
Pressed against a window
Not really trying to get out
And not really trying to make the best of things
And if your legs should disappear
And you were fashioned to get around on wheels
Two or four or whatever they do
You might be happier
Knowing you are more pulley
And less man
More system
More string
And more momentum
Less potential
Less unwarranted movement
Less here
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1.6.11