The capable corners of will at play—
big black gloves in boxing rings
that fight descending thrones of steps.
Each time I move, I lift weights,
row boats without their oars,
have neither time nor luxury
nor inclination steaming there
to meet pupils of your preying eyes.
You serve me plates of platitudes:
“You handle amputation well!”
You mean to starch the shirt of warm
but turn me off like liver cold—
onions of a smile poised
can never quite eradicate.
I stab each step I grab with
the essence of a beating heart.
It’s an orange to be squeezed.
A head of Romaine that shrivels
to worms if left untrimmed.

You ask from whence
this courage comes:
the midi file of drag and drop.
Concrete’s simply in the way.
You asked me once from curious:
“Do you have lots of crippled friends?
I mean because of Oh...
you know--the missing stuff.”
Compassion comes out
like a Dilbert cartoon,
but I understand your reach, I think.
The answer is “No.
I respect fate’s bile,
the deep, deep urge to limp a stage
unfettered by the question snails
that leave a trail in private dirt.
I never approach disabled suns:
I sense and smell and see too clear
the pestilence of effort’s springing archery.”