Poetry

It's the walk from the door to the door
Of a beat-up purple truck, my robot
Ever ready to receive the key, my hands
My feet become tires and engine, my
Prosthetic letting me speed toward the
Adventure of routine with a prayer from
My mouth and the pang from unfurling
Memories of believing in the impossible: 

Not a blind, rather a stubborn, insistent
Faith that it must be so because I believe:
Like a boy blowing out candles, eyes
Shut tight to safeguard the secret from
Smirks and cocked eyebrows, wishing
To be let in-- instead of ever looking past
Reflections dulled by my breath, hearing
Laughter and music muffled by cold glass-- 

Welcomed by love and warmth growing
From one heart aflame, one face illumined
By beauty; defying the murmur of seasons,
Which we bare with grace or reluctance,
Believing the tic of this fleshy clock begins
The journey.  Now the robot is warm, the
Coffee kicks in, and the walk to the doors
From the truck stays memories and faith.