wheeling.

at twenty-four, im unlearning
the ways. unlearning is tougher than
learning these days.
an orange and lilies against
a black wall.

i’ve told no one what you’d said
about the end. i’d made you
out to be a
godsend.
photocopies of certificates
on a wheelchair.

so shut me out and break me
down, up. i’m tapping my
feet and wobbly wheeling
on. cut me like an
onion and i’ll sting you right back,
my valentine. i want
the roses,
the red, red roses.

i wheel myself, but
you must stay close. the roses
i hold. but everything else
you do. just wheeling, and
wheeling, breathing
and breathing,
i stab, shun, score.

What a plunge! Right into the pool of second and third chances; straight into the ichor of new beginnings. Counting my blessings a week late, thank you – divine god of the rejects! I don’t use the term ‘free-thinkers’ no more – not when I can help it anyway. Because yours truly simply doesn’t feel the ‘freedom’ implied in ‘free-thinking’ no more. I forget how much of a reprieve writing can be – creative writing, my writing, my unpunctuated flood of rhythm and words. one tutor, who shall be unnamed, to credit for this reprise.