John

This....is fiction and nonfiction.
{I'm so sick of people always pitying those with problems, like handicaps; yes, empathy and compassion are fine, they're necessary and wanted. But, honestly, in the end, everyone just wants it to be fair; everyone wants a chance to do something themselves. Fighting and losing makes us fight.}


I raced a crippled boy today,
out in the sun,
bet him ten green bottle-caps his legs
weren't dead, had simply forgotten the thrill
of flight: the fight.
And out in hotter-than-hell heat,
he dumped his safety brakes
and I dumped my sneakers,
and together we hit the pavement running;
hindered by wheelchairs and blistering feet.

For thirty-seven seconds we were equals;
two people strung up in a too-loose noose of hope,
released by an opportunity.
It was three blocks of screaming, screeching,
agonized agony for both of us,
and I'm sure my feet will never feel again;
just like his legs, suspended before him.

The whole neighborhood came out to watch,
lawn chairs and lemonade and all,
and I flat-out ignored them.
Their anger washed over me,
but I simply said "Your legs aren't dead, John. Nothing is ever truly dead,
just sleeping -- soundlessly."
All that disbelieving-rage beaded up like sweat
and erupted through the crowd,
but we ran
and ran, laughing and wincing the whole way.

I crossed the finish line first: three feet ahead,
and they all yelled and booed,
but that crippled boy? He just rolled up and beamed.
"Maybe next time," he said, smiling.

Maybe next time.


{John, I happen to agree.}