me, pushing a wheelchair
her, a soft lemon peach scalp below my nose
been about a decade since i
last pushed a wheelchair containing
the gravitational shape
of a grandmother
i don't know why
it took my neurons
so long to link up
in my brain.
as i trawled along the walkways of the mall, sometimes steering with one hand like how i aim to drive, her downy head swivelling left and right at the instinctive call of a cue- police tape yellow discount price tags, flashing silver jewelry, kanji she probably read in hokkien inside that enclosed head-
oh, so rapturous, her head, lovely like a fresh warm egg in the softest copper brown nest of hay, her permed tufts of rust hair in wispy waves patterned across the scalp, tickling in my artificially generated breeze when i push her through the air- suddenly i know why i love to look upon that head:
it's like a baby's!
that inquisitiveness, the soft beginnings of tresses sprouting from a skull so full of newness and wonder and life- what does her head hold?
YOU ARE READING
i'll never be a poet
Poetryand here's the pretentious proof an ongoing anthology of the poetry of nobodi.
