So here I am again
sat on four unwelcome wheels.
A seat soft, but lacking,
waiting for a porter to
push away my independence,
sabotage my thoughts,
transport me to where
my vision of life will be sliced in half,
my voice instantly lowered,
The sign up ahead needs reading.
I am whisked away before
my request can be formed.
The rough pavement delivers
shock waves through my legs,
abrupt emergency stops,
my vision ahead cut short
by turbulent turns.
I am a vacant body
removed from affairs up high,
a subject of occasional compassion and need,
but mostly an invisible carcass.
Down here I am a forgotten prisoner,
baggage with no destination,
a broken machine with no manual.
Down here I am a solitary moving figure
enduring a journey whilst falling.
Background: I wrote this when I first needed a wheelchair.
A poem from my chapbook Quicksand.