propels your wheelchair
through an obsolete rail tunnel.
The dogs call you to follow
into the darkly scented chamber,
that provides a diameter of privacy
a length away from others’ pity.
Mud chaulks your spinning wheels
to stall and suspend you in flickering orange light.
The brick above rupture tears
that splash and tremor on your skin.
A century of gases asphyxiate your movement.
You cannot hear the dogs or see
those cycles of bright exit.
Pen Reid, Poet of the Month February 2016