The Slow Waltz


They dance mostly in their chairs
some strapped in, lots of fidgets,
blank stares as the soothing music seeps
into their odd little brains

My young friend, like all the children here,
is alien to this world. His tubes and wires
protruding and trailing, his gait awkward
his nose always runny, but
he doesn’t know, has not a clue that his life
is not as intended (if intention
has anything to do with new life, really.)
He and his fellow kidnauts are transported
poked prodded tested therapized
nearly every moment they are here,
the risk is too great to do anything else
yet they smile and tease and copy
their swarming adults. Their smiles
are so disarming, so rewarding
that once in awhile they’re just kids
who want to be.

He’s out of his full body cast,
his hips repaired so that he may walk
someday. Standing up is the current project,
reliving toddler strategies.
He likes to walk with me behind him
holding his hands
like marionette strings.

We glide, hesitantly, around the room,
drawn by whatever attracts the eye
or some dim memory of what was fun
yesterday.


Roger Thomas Wehling
January 2006

When Everything


what to do when everything
hurts, emotions are frozen
the brain won’t strain, refrains
from even the attempt to believe in
some outside thing, not the self, residing
elsewhere than here the seat of all fear
and knowledge of the precarious ledge
we dance upon while awaiting the chance
to feel all right, to get through the night
into a new day, another chance to find the way
to make no mistakes, find what it takes
to ease the hurts, while remaining alert
to the dangers, and ever stranger
worlds to gain, just forget about pain.


Roger Thomas Wehling
January 2006