SOMETHING LIKE A WHEEL
I was falling apart in the waiting room
when I gazed across the aisle
and saw another woman
whose looks I didn’t share.
Her skin was dark and mine is light.
Her clothes were stained and torn.
But when I took another look
I saw a similarity.
Her head was bald, and so was mine.
We shared a damn disease.
We looked into each other’s eyes,
hers a darkish brown,
mine a grayish blue.
We saw a common core
filled with fear and filled with hope
and filled with something more.
Our expressions were in sync
as we gave a knowing look
and shared a simple smile
binding us together.
We are all unique,
yet somehow we’re the same.
We’re something like a wheel,
each of us a separate spoke
bound by the rim and joined at the hub
rolling along together.
If we forget the rim that binds
or disregard the hub that joins
and focus on our separateness
we’ll surely fall apart.
(Alice Smith lives in Chattanooga, TN with her husband Alfred and their dog Leroy. Together they have four children and four grandchildren. Alice is a breast cancer survivor and the author of five collections of poetry including That Little Girl)
The Beautiful Space-