fatigue is

a slow river,

sloppy, spilling

over rocks.

 

weakness

is the opposite of thunder-

a brush with something like death,

an ongoing unlearning in the body.

 

Derek had me in a wheelchair

for a routine appointment

at the hospital,

his oversized army fatigues

and cheap sunglasses

gave him an aura

of absurd authority.

 

I had let go of my body

and watched it

let go of me.

 

He would get me in the elevator

and intentionally

push it against the wall,

and I would scream in pain,

 

“Who the hell is this guy,”

I’d say as two doctors watched in confusion.

 

Derek would say, “stay in the wheelchair

and shut your mouth.”

 

We laughed most of the time

as others looked on in horror.

 

I left the building screaming, “Help,”

as  Dearek abused the wheelchair

and the equilibrium of those watching.

 

Perhaps humor is the doorway

to a lighter place,

to humility,

to a state of being

where the rolling fog

of death

isn’t important.

 

Perhaps I’m not as important

as my pain tells me I am.

 

Perhaps this poem is not

as important as I think it is.

 

And perhaps the sky,

blue or grey,

will remember and love me

even when the rain

makes it impossible

to see my spirit

with a smile.