My Legs

Are my legs worth more,
than yours.
Do they swing,
in the right direction.
Make people stop,
and stare and think:
I’ve never seen
a set of pins like those before.

Are they not something to celebrate,
to preserve and save.
These things that once had rhythm.
That tapped, and danced, and jived.
And pogoed during Punk Rock,
and strutted  in discos,
and stepped out  at summer raves.
Do they not make me who I am?

Did I not communicate,
with these things made of bone and skin.
Have they not brought me closer,
to other human beings.
Given pleasure to those who stood,
and watched.
As I made use of this gift,
that’s now been taken away.

Are my legs worth more,
because they were always extra fast;
and sailed through:
one hundred and two hundred.
Because they flopped over a High Jump bar,
or had me Marathon running,
across the globe.
In London, Chicago, Madrid and Berlin.

I never had to think:
How the hell,
am I going to do that.
Without morphine or crutches.
Not alone, never alone,
I can’t.
I can’t go out, not without help.
Not without a wheelchair.

Are my legs worth anything to you.
The person who plays god,
Who has me crawling cross my bed,
in the morning,
reaching out for a urine bottle ,
and a crutch.
And the pain killing medication,
that gets me through the day.

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