America, 2025

We were wrong to believe in our hands
Whether of strength or delicacy—
Laboring
Or the piano in the mind.
We’re fiction now
Or half unreal like babies
And no one will tell us
How it will be.
There’s no fortune teller.
Young and old
Can’t grasp
Immediate things.
A sustained smallness
Hangs from our sleeves
Though we keep waving…

Author: stevekuusisto

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