Born blind,
most attributed his infirmity
to parental iniquity.
Some just chalked it up to
bad luck.
All he knew was darkness.
Then that day —
(like a terminal patient
with a bizarre disease
whom the specialist brings interns to see,
talking over him like a lab specimen)
a teacher and his pupils.
He heard the ethics question,
the strange reply,
a person kneeling near him
and . . . . .
spitting!
Lots of spitting.
Not at him
(that had happened before)
but into the dry, dusty earth.
Next
hands were pushing mud
into his eye sockets.
He heard the murmuring crowd.
“What’s he doing?”
He heard the man rise and step back
(like an artist admiring his work).
“Go wash.”
Someone helped him to his feet.
Someone led him to the pool.
And he washed.
Most attributed his healing
to misdiagnosis.
Some just chalked it up to
good luck.
All he know was that he was blind
but now he could see.
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Today’s prompt is to write a luck poem.
little learner 