TheBanyanTree: SEVEN

[smack58 at nycap.rr.com]

This was a  poem I wrote after visiting a friend in a VA hospital.  I saw a lot of tragedy while I was there and this was inspired by a real soldier whom I didn’t know, but just observed:

SEVEN  

He sat in his wheelchair
wondering
what next,
one leg short of a sandwich;
one sandwich short of a picnic
one bitter thought after another.

The stump represented 
his missing life,
his missing limb,
it hurt,
it ached.

He wanted to shift its weight
except there was nothing to shift
not now...
not then...
when he had needed it,
he'd needed it to run
needed it to escape,
to escape one last time.

Seven minutes 
to die half a death.

Seven inches 
left of his thigh.

Seven years
he'd given to his country.

Seven times seven
he'd lived past his prime.

And now 
in a room
he didn't recognize,
his gaze followed
cool green walls
to one made of glass
then moved to the stone floor.

Where he contemplated the glass
against the stone
against the cool
against the green.

Was the glass a safety measure
to make him visible
in the event he fought
for his right
to death
to his dying?

That way they had a jump on things
catching him before he fell,

Catching him before he fell
the rest of the way.