Wheelchair

I have
become an observant
creature. Through the
window of this
coffee shop I see
this guy, about my
age. My size. Hair’s
going a little gray.
Like mine.

Comes flying by in a
wheelchair. Right out in
the middle of the
street like he doesn’t
give a good goddamn. My kind
of guy. I mean, Jesus, he’s moving
like it’s his last day. I know
what that feels
like.

Anyone can see he’s used
it for a long time. The
wheelchair.
It fits him like
he was born in it. For all
I know he was. Yeah, life
hasn’t been too
kind to him. Well, I’ve
sung that song for some
time now.

He comes
to a stop next
to an old Chevy truck,
like the one I had,
opens the door,
pulls himself in,
and the chair after
him. Drives off.
It occurs to me that he
and I are a lot
alike.

Only difference is I’m
crippled.