Self-Portrait as Club Foot
I am a club foot, twisted in, inverted down.
I am the one in every one-thousand,
how lucky to be. To be
me, that one, that chance event.
A man said, you should be happy — look
at the child you have.
But if my happiness is within the child,
then that happiness runs away,
up the ladder, through the blue
tunnel, down the slide again and again.
I limp when I run after the child who
becomes a pencil sketch of lines,
that dissolves into the sand. What is sand
but small rocks?
Rocks are rocks. They are oblong and
bony. I desire
straightness, unbending. I chase
my other foot like a lottery.
I search to be the one in ten million
I have beat the odds before. Power to my
powerball, my mega
of millions, my factorial capability.
Factoring in the wind, the windows, and
the probability of rain, what’s left in my
winnings is always this — I want to go
home now, I want my own room forever,
I want what I used to have.
I want what I have.
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