Risky Rolling

This poem rang true during my college years:

When I travel in a wheelchair due to AVN in my ankle and my knee,

Mom is the primary wheelchair-pusher for me.

She wheels me to college classes so I won’t fall too far behind.

She spends hours at school with me and says she doesn’t mind.

We wheel through the halls at U of M Hospital and she is a hoot.

We even wheeled over a construction worker’s foot, luckily covered with a steel-toed boot.

Crossing streets in my wheelchair in Boston caused great apprehension.

Crazy, too-fast drivers made for nothing but tons of tension.

Mom pushes the wheelchair with anything but grace

Because she is adamant about maintaining her mall-walking pace.

Mom claims she has no wheelchair license to push me

And after her rolling rides, I have to say I agree!

The End

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