Everyday Asthmatic
The boy breathes a wheeze –
A whistle in the breeze.
He fidgets on his seat,
Willing it to cease.
The diseased rasps
Seize him as he
Wishes to appease them.
Others look in
Confrontation
Because he broke their
Concentration.
The others are displeased
He perceives. It’s the
Last resort. He retrieves
His inhaler,
Squeezes the trigger.
He’s relieved. But they
Still stare. Asthmatics:
A subspecies.
Adam Woolley
Fkx
Sun 19th Jun 2011 15:12
Takes one to know one. My inhaler is sitting in the fridge, not having had to be used the last couple of years! Childhood asthma was a torment and a curse. Grown-up asthma... well, that is a whole new ball game. This poem allows the reader to experience and feel for the poetic persona. If only empathy could solve everything. I guess it is half the dilemma solved.