If I'd been told rusty nail holes
wouldn't cripple me, that dirty bones
and mummified feet can spit out golden tickets,
stomping that spike may'v stung less.

Anesthesia fog lifted as pretty nightingales
stuffed gauze in the melon ball scoop trench,
then cast my leg knee to toe in bandages and plaster.

Dazed later a gurney in a van carted
a scared timid boy to a charity playground
for kids whose parents sweat for a living.

Crutches jammed under pits, limp limb swinging,
first pass across polished terrazzo
whisked me to the initiation chamber.

Three fellas in various stages of disrepair
conned me into a dance with yo mama jabs,
without a punch thrown I joined the club.

Tawny Kitaen on a big screen TV, foosball
air hockey table top zaxxon... in a tailspin
I plopped on a bench miles from the hustle.

Beth walked up and her softness enveloped me,
within this bubble she centered my keel
with her dark springy curls lanky stance
and crystalline voice, an opiate fairy sat beside me.

It's like a sugar bomb exploded inside me,
sweetness spread out from my rib cage
and electrified every cell in my body.

We shared meals and played pole position,
she refereed the wheelchair races and I
sat with her on the polished terrazzo
while she cried outside the cafeteria.

She wrote "Love, Beth" under her address
on a scrap of notebook paper that I carried home
and held sleepless nights waiting for her reply letter.

If this solitary man with gray in his beard
told that scared timid boy golden tickets
only conjure opiate fairies once in a lifetime,
he'd still cash it in.

Nice poem .

NICE

Thanks for a look guys.