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What Kind of Luck Is This

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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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November PAD: Day 13

Today’s prompt is to write a luck poem.

I Miss You

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There is truth in what they say
about Time being a healer.
I resisted his attempts
at mending my heart,
wanting to feel the sharp ache,
thinking that if it became dull
I would lose the outline of your smile,
the fullness of your laugh,
the intensity of your eyes.

But he caught me sleeping at my post
and crept in with iodine and plasters.

Somehow the pain has mellowed
like a rich Merlot
and is lined with a soft sweetness —
the gentle reminder of your love,
the resounding echo of your voice:
“Courage, comrade.
Fix your gaze on the author
and run with steadfastness
the course marked out for you.”

And so I run,
encouraged by your witness,
surrounded by a great cloud.

But as I run,
I recall our synchronised gait
and I miss you
all over
again.