The uprights are out there with ankles and knees,
just raw-dogging sidewalks like life is a breeze.
They’re shifting their weight like exhausted flamingos,
just praying their arches survive where the line goes.
So basic. So vertical. So painfully plain.
Just two little sticks with a balance campaign.
Meanwhile, I roll in unbothered and hot,
like a seated machine with the best parking spot.
No blisters or limping, no “Where is a chair?”
Plot twist: I brought one- I’m already there.
Doors open faster,
And crowds gently part.
People become helpful,
It’s honestly art.
“Oh, let me grab that!”
“Please, you go through!”
Suddenly everyone knows what to do.
VIP service? I’m not saying yes,
but I am saying life got a seating upgrade, I guess.
But wait.
That was the brochure.
The glossy edition.
The wheelchair fantasy.
The sales floor rendition!
Because in real life, and I hate to report,
the VIP service is shockingly short.
The chair isn’t noticed.
The wheels don’t part seas.
Nobody salutes me
or offers me cheese.
No velvet rope opens, no trumpets appear.
Half the time people don’t know that I’m here.
The wheels are not tired.
The wheels have a mission.
The wheels could be flying
with basic permission.
But uprights drift sideways and stop with no plan,
like software updates in the shape of a man.
Some block the whole path
Like a bear in the wild.
Some talk to my face
like I’m still a child!
People ask others
“Does he need us to move?”
I’m right here, Janet.
And yes, I approve!!
I’m not asking for trumpets,
or cheese, or a crown.
Just don’t become furniture
when I roll through the town.
This chair has momentum.
And my wheels have good pace,
The problem is Bruce
Clogging my space.
So cherish your kneecaps, your toes, and your stride.
Your luxury option to step to the side.
And when I come rolling,
composed and elite,
please act like your legs
came with more than just feet.
My exaggerated take on getting places in a chair through Brady’s eyes.
-Cher