THAT WORD

D
The world goes on and on and on

But I’m here and here and here.

A plastic urinal looks up and blooms

Between the wheelchair and the dis-

Abled toilet.

I’ve been reading poets and poems 

and poetry but can’t find a link to 

my home. Poetry is out there in 

the meadows and trees but 

I’m locked-in alone. 

I put a search into Google for poets 

who took a stroke, nothing came up. 

I turned away in my wheelchair to see 

my leg-lifter and my grabber catching 

rays of sunlight on my profile bed so 

I suppose the only link is the sun coming 

in and this pome going out. 

A pome from an un-romantic, un-

academic spineless confessional poet

there, I said it, that word poet but 

I’m just shadow of my former self 

living a stanza i me.