Shannon was born four months premature
to a crackhead mom.
She was so small
you could see her heart
like a goldfish
under paper-thin ice.
The hospital lights ripped and ruined
her tiny retinas
and the doctors didn’t give her
a month
but somehow here she is
30 years later
blindly limping toward my taxi on
taffy legs
with Lloyd,
her loyal yellow lab
guiding the way.
Lloyd climbs into the cab,
sinks to the floor
with a happy huff
and then Shannon feels her way
in like a spelunker.
When she’s comfortable
I drive her to the public pool
where she sits peacefully
every Tuesday
under her dark umbrella
with her braille book she doesn’t read,
preferring to just listen
to the children splashing,
moving her hand in
and out of the shade.
