Empty Wheelchair.

I’m reading a poetry collection by a man named Patrick Ryan Frank. His initials are PRF and to me that sounds like it should be some sort of degree. Like an MFA or a DDS.

The collection is called “HOW THE LOSERS LOVE WHAT’S LOST” and below is one of my favorite poems so far. (This, BTW, is how one is supposed to write poetry, in case I have fooled you into thinking that mine is any good.)

IT ISN’T PARANOIA IF IT’S TRUE

An empty wheelchair in an empty park,

parked car packed full of children’s toys – I can’t

quite shake the feeling things are happening

to other people, either miracles

or something awful, but not to me, as if

my name is off the list for some event

the universe is having: massive party,

prison riot, something half the town

has found an invitation to, like money

in a brand new jacket pocket, like bits of glass

in a cereal box, but I still have some hope

I’ll open a door and find a room of people

all strangers, shouting, Surprise, shouting, Look out!

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