Getting out of bed

Drop the bed rail, up because I flail
incontinence currently not an issue
issue, get it, hah. Many decisions all in a row
to get up, now the bedrail is down
cross the fence, leaving paddock
nightmares to roam
no dancing on the ceiling
sure that up was down
vertiginous falling in a heap
me in my white winding sheet
crying softly  but that was not last
night, no, that was two nights ago.

Last night you came
to fetch me  from the toilet
where I was fast asleep and slow
to get up to drop down
into my wheelchair, ronly for me,
you have your own

I refused the rigidizer firmly
when I first met my wheeled chair
it was my seat I was worried
about not the chair’s, ever;
odds where the seat of the chair
would last longer than me,
no matter the weight and gravity
my tender buttocks pressed
into the taut slung seat.

Between the lines I can hear
the specialist not listening
“I know better than you
you with a mental illness
on record, you may no longer
get to make many decisions
even at home all in a row.”

2. Getting dressed/jumping into the fire[1]

On with the pants, wait a minute I need underpants. Assemble
assemble the parts to. put on. I gather my undergarments
certain age define different words to describe
what’s the first layer across my weight increases.
Thesse are underpants, boxers unsuitable for the non-violent,
nor are my undershirts wife-beaters they are vests, shoulders to hold
suspenders I can see out of the corner of my eye. 

Next step is falling in step I need to get a leg on. I put a shoe on the other foot.
through the pant legs, wait I need to dress the leg first, pull the pant leg over
the peg leg push both legs through, then stop to get the suspenders right,
then uppy puppy the dog offers help, a scratch behind the ear, off he goes I’ve saved

my white cotton shirt because I like to dress like the writer I feel that is inside me
the writer that is inside me wears a white shirt, 100% cotton.
I realize the weight of the world is just my suspenders holding my pants up.

Hear Grace Slick sing “you’re only as pretty as you feel inside.”
I read the piece in “notes to myself” or whatever column it was
that most writers have a few rituals a few things that they like
to wear when they are working so I’m wearing a white shirt

when I jump into the fire, wearing a fake leg and one matching sock
ha, get it. I cannot help but think of my father in his white shirt and calm
grey suit for his sermons. He preferred to use a belt. 

[1] Harry Nilsson

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