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