(a postcard poem)
I’m used to people
who dare assume I can’t
order food from a restaurant
without help to read the menu
or I spread each day staring
at daytime TV and drooling.
But when a fellow writer
implied that I was lying
about hurting my back while dancing
I was driven almost too angry tears,
because the implication was that,
of course, disabled people don’t exercise
or move for anything other than function.
I opt to poor my anger
out into a poetry postcard poem
instead of confronting the rude writer.