Rubin Hardin

THIS PROPHET HAS FIBROMYALGIA

A man who thinks he is G*d
walks onto the bus.
His breath reeks of

cigarette smoke and doubt.
He approaches me,
spits out harshly
that I’m too young to use a cane.
As if telling me would
result in a miracle.

The day I picked my cane
at the pharmacy the angels
celebrated so vibrantly
that shooting stars
sprinted across the sky.

I sat down on the freezing
metal bench and was
in awe that I could
keep my torso up.

The man who believes
he is G*d has never
been forced to rip open
a package with his teeth.

He’s never had to beg
his science teacher every day
for weeks to please follow

his IEP in the nicest tone
his autistic voice can muster.

The man who believes he is G*d
can take any job he is offered.
He will never be fired
for his inability to recognize
the social cues of customers.

The man who believes
he is G*d thinks he can spot
who is faking from an ocean away.

All mobility devices
are useless in his realm.
He could make a world filled

with ramps, if he wanted.
He could make a temple
with canes resting on every pew.

He could make Torahs light
enough that anyone could lift them.

When we talk about choice,
this is never what is mentioned.

Only of the disabled people
who have the audacity
to exist on a public bus.

Who sit on the accessible
seats without a mobility device.

When the bus driver asks
them to move seats because
they aren’t “really” disabled,
they dig their heels in.

They clutch their mermaid shaped
squeeze ball so tight the filling
explodes onto the bus floor.

This is the only time in their life
that they will refuse to clean
an overwhelming mess.

The second I say that I am disabled
a gaggle of self-identified G*ds
crash down from the sky.

All handing out pamphlets
filled with useless opinions.
Swallowing keys to doors
I couldn’t have opened anyway.