They were married,
but not to each other.
She was the assistant;
he was the boss.
Her name was Sarah.

She stayed late often
and talked with him alone.
Somehow he let her know
he wasn’t completely happy,
and somehow she let him know
she understood,
which made him happy.

He should have been working;
she should have been home.
Before long he couldn’t work anyway,
thinking of her.  

So he fell in love with her.
But he didn’t know it;
He thought it was lust.

When he knew she’d accept,
He offered a kiss.
She accepted.

Once they started,
they couldn’t stop,
and still they talked
as they touched and kissed.
They were soulmates mating.

After awhile,
she talked of leaving her husband, Paul,
and he talked of leaving his wife, Rebecca.
Rebecca was his mistake,
and someday he’d leave her
or she’d leave him.
But he didn’t want a new wife,
or a new mistake.

So he let Sarah go.
She went in tears.

It was the best thing to do.
It was the worst thing to do.

Around him grew
a sad new aura: emptiness --
emptiness in the office,
where the new assistant played computer games;
emptiness at home,
where the dog got heart worms
and the pipes froze.

He thought in time
the emptiness would fade.
But Sarah was gone,
and he missed her.
In time,
he missed her more.
The more he missed her,
the emptier life became.

Then it struck him:
the magnitude of what he’d done:
he’d lost her.
He loved her.
He’d lost the one he loved.

He had to call her;
he couldn’t call her.
He’d made her cry.
She had to hate him.
Maybe she loved him.
He had to see her.

He drove across the river to her new office.
He found her car in the parking lot.
He parked where he could see,
and waited.

At five-after-five
she approached her car.
He got out of his
and approached her.
She stopped
when she saw him.
He stopped
when she stopped.

He said the words:
“I love you.”

She came toward him.
She stood before him.
Her eyes were gardens.

“I didn’t know I loved you,” he said.
“But now I know.
I love you.”

She turned to the car
and opened the door.
“I left Paul,” she said.

“I’ll leave Rebecca.”

She got in the car.
“Call me when you do.”
She shut the door,
started the car,
backed up
and drove off.

So there was hope.

That night
he packed his bags
as Rebecca raved.
Then he left.

The next morning
He called Sarah.
He took her to lunch
that day.
She cooked dinner
that evening.

They've been together
ever since.

Look at him. Look at him, they think. Pitiful.
His withered legs like empty promises hang
from hips as dead and shrunken as stillborn dreams.
It must be hell to be half wheelchair
and half man.

                          He understands. He understands
they think they understand how it feels to be
a wheelchair man. So well he understands
the wholesomeness of pity: for every ounce
of pity, you can count a thousand blessings.
So count.

                   Meanwhile he rolls. He rolls and rolls.
Legs – legs he doesn't see. Hips – hips he avoids.
Looking up he sees faces, tall faces
with glass eyes fixed on objects far too high
for him to spy from his lowly throne.

                                                        ­          He rolls
and counts and rolls to a stop before
cathedral steps. The doors are closed today.
He cannot see inside today. No matter –
He cannot genuflect on any day,

but flexes the muscles of his faith each time
he pities them, who stoop to sympathize.

There's something square about a city block
that boxes the mind in concrete, brick, steel,
iron, wood, and stone, as if one could not
look in or out, or dream or dare to live
upon a liquid sphere of blue and green.