The Story of a Blind Man


Tack. Tack.

It is…aged wood against aging asphalt
asphalt dying, scorched by the merciful sun
The same, merciful sun beating my bare back—

down
down
down

With sweltering, unmanageable
unimaginable
heat.

Until it is bowed deeply in age

Tug. Tug.

It is…you again, You. The inconsiderate YOU.
YOU that I never get tired of
Even if it is time I should—

And I do try…you know?

I try.

But you, the inconsiderate YOU,
won't look back and consider

Or think. Twice.

Tug. TUG.

I try again.

But you, the inconsiderate YOU,
just stared ahead: forward.

Following the merciful sun—and walked on
walked walked walked some more

And

n e v e r

stopped.

So I followed.
Clambering.

Swish. Swish.

It is…the sudden, swift. Sweet, gay wind
Wind that I feel
that I taste but… cannot see?

Wind that pushes the leaves to the

e
d

g

e

Freeing the crisp, gray nothings to the
g r o u n d.

Gray. GRAY.

I bit back a laugh.

What… was that? Ha.
Gray and black is only what I see.

I'd never see

see the yellow sunshine
see the green of leaves
see anything… and everything—

That you… the inconsiderate YOU.
speak of

Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

It is… always always always the case.

So I force a smile and followed:

you, the inconsiderate YOU

And I pretend.


A/N: My first poem in three years. There's no error in the placing of the punctuation marks--no honest mistakes whatsoever. I wrote this for QueSci's Poetry Slam monthly finals, and us juniors are required to join.:D