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.