Wheelchair Blues

Two raised steps deny him
the door though it stands
wide open. No prisoner in
leg irons has less chance
of passing through the door
than this poor cuss sitting
waiting . . . for what? Help?
The last day? A miracle? He
tells himself it could be worse,
there could be three steps.
So he waits, waits in dreams,
waits days and nights as if
barriers would dissolve or faith
lift him to his white useless feet.
Love goes by in a busload of
laughter with the doors shut,
he waves but it never stops.
Oh, the poor bastard sits there
day after day dreaming of valentines
and the days before the war.