They call out,
"The disabled, line up!"
There is a man who stands,
and as if realizing who he is,
what he represents,
he places a pained hand upon his back.
He moves and shuffles toward
the waiting breakfast staff,
themselves waiting,
on a miracle, on worldly
compassion.
And these downtrodden,
these hurt and wounded,
the veterans of wars
global and personal,
are no longer human, no.
They are labels,
their entire purpose is to be
a sticker,
because we,
we have deemed them so.
Unfit, we say.
Unstable, we say.
Ill and weak-willed, we say.
We cast these judgements
to tear them down and
build ourselves up.
And if only we turned these
judgements inward, but
without malice, would we realize.
We too are weak.
Perhaps more so.