My smile looks like a dented Studebaker’s grill <br />from a bygone era; or more like the weathered picket fence <br />that poet Robert Frost never found the time to mend… <br />My nose has a hole from the cancer within <br />that could or would take the Hope diamond to fill; and the lump <br />on my head, it’s my twin… <br />People stare at me and wonder <br />how I’m still alive, or they ask me how long <br />my nose and head have been with child. <br />The little children cringe and with dirty fingers point, <br />knowing little if anything of a dead man walking, as their <br />mothers pull them by the hair or arms <br />safely out of my contaminated destination. <br />Police don’t give me traffic tickets <br />they recommend to the judge, house arrest… <br />believing when you are deformed <br />you are an unsafe driver and putting others at risk. <br />So today I’m waiting for the bus <br />to take me to my doctor’s place <br />In hopes that me and my family of diseases <br />can make it to that better day… <br /> <br />2008 © T Sheridan<br /><br />Ted Sheridan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/we-all-have-to-sit-in-the-back-of-the-bus-sometimes-in-order-to-get-to-where-we-re-going/
