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The Wheelchairman's arms drape down

like an African family from a national geographic

shielding the youngest from the shame of a camera lens


After the accident, the doctors supposed

he should give care to his state:

Roll out to the grounds of the rehab centre;


the chill of the morning touches a briefness of his waist

not covered by regulation white/blue gown,

he feels it quicken,

heat across the meridian of his injuries


Below that

a leg trickles out

the hump of a waterfall

as it shimmies down the rock face


how the centre holds him now;

a starchy womb

and he is enshrined there,

with the homeless bums of his legs

thrust out like Indian gods

listening to the tick-tock


of a clock that retains full use of its body.


The End

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