I Would Never Call This Walking
by Jeff Santosuosso



I bruised my palms, locked wrists,
reddened armpits, leaning
askew on crutches,
bustling in the boulevard
trying to keep up
with the healthy
of foot, ankle, knee, and hip.
Suction cup substitutes
for my own motivation.
I would never call this walking.
I feel apish,
hands dangling near the ground
not nearly quick, not nearly human.

I once fell out of a wheelchair
onto a hillside
scaring a pack of cats, splatter-scatter,
elbows skinned,
sunglasses scratched,
a sidewalk spectacle
poured back into that seat.

Now you’ll find me roadside, tripping
among boulders,
nearly twisting my ankle,
arms flailing pinwheels, eyes agog
then squinting in sun.
I prefer to walk toward the moon,
among rocks
on the shoulder,
not quite sure-footed.





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