Shove It, Brother, Shove It

From bedroom to bathroom to
breakfast table you break your
knuckles to shove the wheelchair
toward the smell of coffee.
For you to face the morning,
dressed, cleaned, fed gives you
a day’s work before the day
is under way. Read the paper,
the news ‘‘out there’’ seems so
much blackmail to be paid in daily
installments by a draft on the
good things you want to believe in.
You discard the map of rough roads
where your indigent legs can’t
beg their way.