Bumper-stickers on my car
are pasted on without a choice.
The wheelchair--a cruel stamp--
despite its truly meaning well.
My Van Gogh ear is metal, plastic
suctioned on by leeching need.
Every time I take a step,
I hear the sound of mowing eyes
or soda crackers snapping difference
on the rug before my mind.

To be or not a normal toad
in vile swamps of magazines.
If I choose the leg-less route,
I have the pillow lighter pain.
Then I have the stares to dodge,
like yellow jackets at a picnic.
Sick of being chicken breasts,
I never go without my limb.

I’d like to blame it on convenience.
Even though the lie is bald
and candor’s knuckles tap my head.
The reason season isn’t pretty.
Being branded with disgust.
Yours and mine that melt together.
Pressing down the sealing wax
of odd that comes in bumble bees
with judging serum’s biting sting.

by Janet I. Buck

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Updated August 10, 2000