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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 13, 2016

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Submitted: August 13, 2016



How was
St James' Park,
A nurse asks me
as I sit
in a wheelchair
by my bed.

I turn my blind eyes
towards her:
good to go out
and smell
and hear
London out
of this ward,
I say.

She tucks in
the blanket around
my bandaged leg stumps.

You look better now,
the sun has caught you,
she says,
I can get you?

New legs and eyes?
I say.

Eyes not possible,
but legs maybe
once your stumps
have healed
there is a good chance,
she replies.

I sense her
near me.

Sorry if I am
in a mood,
I say,
I think that man Philip
is trying to propose
or something like it
and I'm not ready
for that now.

She touches
my hand:
give it time
there are more
difficult times ahead
to worry about
than that,
she says.

She goes:
I hear her shoes
on the floor
going away from me.

I sense tears
in my eyes;
I stare into darkness.

Why would he
want me?

What future would he
have with me now?

Not pity
I couldn't have
someone marry
out of pity,
I mutter to myself.

I reach down
and touch my leg stumps
with my fingers
to make sure
they are still there
and I haven't
grown legs
or maybe it is
a dream or nightmare.

They are there
and the reality
of the legs gone
thumps my breast,
my heart.

I grab the sides
of the wheelchair
and bang them
with my hands
and break down
and cry
and say

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