
Poets Walk
A poem about changing light, water, shadows, and the movement of time.

A poem about changing light, water, shadows, and the movement of time.

The clock is ticking down. In less than twenty-four hours there will be surgery, anesthesia, discharge instructions, restrictions, and a sling waiting at the end of it all.

The door catches before the latch. A voice lingers in the hallway, no words, only shape, then fades beneath unhurried steps. Inside, a trace of warmth where someone lingered longer than they should.

Clinical care is built on what can be observed at specific points in time. Clinical decisions rely on these snapshots, such as tests, scans, and recorded symptoms.

Function narrows before anyone calls it loss. The first change was subtle. The sensation between the ring finger and pinky on the left hand felt off. It was numb, but not in a way that was complete or alarming, just dulled enough to feel different and difficult to define.

The last notification fades and the screen goes dark. The reflex to reach for it again stays. The name that might have been checked doesn’t appear: no mark of absence, only a space where nothing arrives.

There are moments when barriers are easy to recognize. A building may have a step at its entrance without a ramp. A service may not be offered at all.

The floor isn’t where it should be. The doors open. The step lands, then misreads, doesn’t quite meet. A quick jolt. The doors close. Next. It repeats.
Disability advocacy, policy, funding, and the decisions that shape whether inclusion is sustained.
There is a shift underway in how disability services are being defined at the federal level. It is not being presented as a reduction, but as a restructuring intended to streamline programs, consolidate funding, and return authority to the states.