Harmless

I am, on my worse days, my daily days,
a text-book cripple,
stumbling along, holding on to a building
just to stay upright. The guy you watch
closely as you cross the street to avoid him,
not sure if he's a drunk, a crazy person,
or just a cripple who's too poor or too vain
for a wheelchair. Though I feel some twinges
of sorrow about this predicament, it's not for me
that I'm sorry--I'd be perfectly happy to sit at home
indefinitely (as doctors like to say) writing, making music.
It's you who see me I'm sorry for, really.
One of my earliest memories is
turning a corner in New York with my mother
and seeing a woman at the end of the block,
stumbling along, sandwich board over her shoulders,
shaking a can of change, crying, "Please give to
Cerebral Palsy," as unable to enunciate clearly
as she was to walk. I was so scared I hid behind
my mother and demanded that we cross the street.
I still remember what I felt: terror at witnessing
the awful way life turns out for some. I see
that same look of terror on your faces now,
you who watch me convulse and trip
along the street. I see it in the faces
of my family and friends, hear it in their voices,
every time they can tell things have gotten
a little worse.
Meanwhile, I'm more concerned with
how in the hell I'll ever find love now.
I'm more concerned with the fact that mass murderers
and violent criminals have bigger fan clubs
than Michael Jordan. I mean, really, these days,
who could ever love a man who can hardly walk,
let alone a cripple who's never killed anyone
or wielded a gun in a bank?

(2005)