I had the class.
Some of the things that came up were
interchanges about writing.
And one of the things I thought of
and I forget what was this one.
It's called not having wings.
I could remember part of it last night.
But I'd like to read this.
If I had a wing, it might hurt, be broken.
I would trail it around stumbling on it.
Maybe infection sets in.
Tortured by terrible pain, I forget all about God and curse
and I'm lost.
I'm glad I don't have any wings.
Now, when I hobble, it is an act of mercy for that knee.
The one relied on so often in the sugar beet fields.
I get somewhere.
I relax, letting me and the rest of the world balance again.
Take it easy world old friend.