Yesterday,
I sat in a common area
of the local university and wrote.

A student
in a power-chair
would glide by
now and then.

I liked the hiss of the wheelchair’s tires
on pavement
or
inside on the hard floor.
I liked the hum
of the motor that accompanies.

I can recognize these sounds
for what they are
almost immediately.

To me,
the sounds are comfortable,
they have a familiarity
despite the fact that they
are not my own sounds.

They are not the click
and
clatter of my crutches
and
I wouldn’t presume to identify with them,
yet they bring about a kindred.

They, these hisses and hums,
bring forth a needed feeling of
‘not-alone-ness’
that I have come to relish of late.

To me,
these are the sounds of,
at the very least,
a modicum of success
and
always of perseverance.
  
Otherwise,
we might all be werewolves
out for a stroll under the light
of the full moon.

I grab small gladnesses where I am able.

The streets are full of wild things
that snap,
snarl,
and
sometimes bite.

I walk among them,
having written of small kindness,
things familiar if strange.

They let me pass unharmed,
still warmed by feelings of belonging.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPbublications 2019