No One’s Home

I write about spilled coins and fallen tree limbs

Forgiving myself for the common

My attention is often misdirected

The schoolteacher would say broken

I remain happily deviant in all settings

There’s a string on the floor

One lightbulb is missing

A man at the podium talks

“Data,” he says, so composed

He could be an undertaker

I’m thinking about my windpipe

And my hands, the opera

Of every mysterious body

That has ever lived

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto