Friday, February 26, 2016


With the right side of the world
invisible, not darkness--
there is no darkness except
when I close my eyes each night,
Navigating through  each day
is sometimes hard work to do.
The left eye, ninety-five percent
disconnected, the nerve torn
I stride down sidewalks quicker
than "normal" people believe.
"You're not really blind, you know,"
is shouted from some passing car.
By now, I just laugh at them.
If they only knew my life
from all its vantagepoints.
I would trade this cane, truly,
for a driver's license.
I envy their freedom--
always have. But I can see
the world at  a slower speed
as long as I have sidewalks,
or bike lanes, wider shoulders
on the roads I travel.
In my two-dimentional
world, I talk to people
everyday, and everyday,
strangers can't help but marvel
at my refusal to yield.
Let's take away their car keys,
force them to walk to bus stops,
waiting in all kinds of weather
for buses that never come.
Let them board buses that stop
too far from the curb 
to manage without stepping
in snow, in puddles, in mud.
Let them try to figure out
how to get from 
point A
to point B
without having to ask for help.
The empty half of my life
has always existed.
Everyone, and everything,
has height and width, but no depth.
"Where is...?" is answered by
someone pointing their finger,
which, of course, I cannot follow.
It must be hard--to drive, to look
where one is going. to shop,
to work, to play, just to live,
with all one's faculties intact:
how do you manage so well?
How do you manage to ask
such stimulating questions?
without tripping on your tongue,
without your brain convulsing
from the effort of inquiry?

I would really like to know.

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