These Crutches - Poem by Casey Rock
The backyard is on fire again.
and as the foundations of the garage
smolder, and the smoke reaches my tastebuds
I open a window
but don't bother with a bucket of water because
there are stairs to descend
anger...rage...only healthy with a side order of
but I don't even spit on the blaze—
I'm on my twenty five dollar throne.
Ninety-five degree tears have left these blisters on my face
and so far the razors of complacency have found only
in my wrists. Banality has induced a swelling of veins—
they have become far far to easy to
see and touch
and has put holes in my kneecaps
(I need something beautiful to live for)
So I don't need to lean on these crutches
until they give up because there has been a
breach of contract and
I am reminded that they're gone
every time I can't walk forever.
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