Once I complained to the mind man
standing perched at the side of his couch:
“I can’t go anywhere. I’m trapped.
I can’t get up from a seat.”
Once, I could, but now I can not.
“A wheelchair is surrender.”
I pledged (again) to fight my false reality.
He said: “Think of it as a freedom machine.”
Now, I am encased by contraptions, contraptions
confine, control my body’s boundaries;
wheelchair iron bars chafe my calves,
lifts, straps, all contraptions that let me be here,
Tomorrow, an “I can still … “
will become “I no longer can….”
And there will be another tomorrow, and tomorrow,
and tomorrow. There will be more contraptions,
but no more freedom machines.
fierce and frightening.
Progressive’s alternative is death.