The only way I can deal with it
Is to feel like this.
To talk of chopping my nose off,
To be prepared to do it;
To lose everything for the sake of
My independent motor function.
The thought of waiting by the phone
For a bone from a beneficial hand is anathema:
Not only don’t I want to be manhandled,
But I’m developing an aversion to words.
I keep thinking of Snakes and
Ladders and how my life’s
Harder, as the descents are sharp
And deeper, and climbing out’s
Guarded and steeper, and just when
I think I’ve made it, and am brave enough
To face my responsibilities another
Shovel is activated and there I go again below.
And it gets heavier to lift my head off the
Floor knowing I’ll soon be carpeted again.
At her pace I will only get to
See Him when she says so,
At a legal one even less; either way
His little bits of adventure will be
Missed: sitting, talking, standing
Walking will all be skipped by me for
Being half a town away and too slow
To catch them, and He will be enveloped in fable
And fabrication and I will wither in the cave
I’ve made with less sense than when I entered.