Stump.

In the white clinical
casing it stands solitary;
A leg.

Wrapped in plastic, obscene
in it's heinous phallic
protrusiveness, hollowed out
in its sorry forgery.

Only a hop, skip and
jump away, a manmade
stick to rival the aspects
of bone and flesh,
blood and muscle;
If only I could
support myself,
If only I could feel
the pain of walking.

When they come to me with a knife
I close my eyes
and dream of
tying my shoelaces.

Each done with a stubborn
double knot,
the foot on my left leg
withering away, in a place that time forgot.

I think of a stone in my shoe
under the arch, bringing a tear
to my eye
and I think of the sad efficiency
of prosthetic
and it brings a tear
to my eyes

...a pair
to rival the absurdity of

a singular leg.

The symmetry of my body shattered
like a hammer to a mirror like
a chisel to bone the erasing of
days spent running
home meets the dream of my left leg
turning to dust all alone
the pang of metal against flesh,
and the wound where my life support stood
taughtened and sewn.
Tipping over like a domino,
stationary, surgeons flaunting
disregard for my DNA
by changing it with chisels
and smiles
I lay, invisibly crossing off miles.

You must be pulling my -.

I can only hope
when it goes,
that you'll stand up for me.