I come to and see things as they come my way,
And it is not anyone’s choice. I wanted to be a wind
Over grasses, agile, but at an adolescent age I was struck
By a fierce sudden cold front on the waist, so I limp a little.
I cannot look at myself from behind or at a distance;
I know it from the jiggle of my shadow. I can take it
With grace, if not pride, dragging along at any weather,
And believing that lameness may force me to see better.
There is a little problem, however, in rainy days
Or on dewy mornings, when my shoes tend to be wet,
And my way of walk will only aggravate it, making
Squeezing sounds, at best like frogs for pastoral ears.
Often than not, people pass by (they often do as they are faster)
And turn a glance at me, believing that I fart at their overtaking.
That is embarrassing, for I cannot prove with odorlessness,
And this is when I know silence is more shameful than farting.
Jan. 27, 2009