“Good luck,” they say, pedaling lightly backward, hand patting for the nob, it turns, “You’ll have your work cut out with this one.” Then the door slams.
I’m given the troublemakers, the ones that can’t be helped.
They come to me diagnosed, undisciplined, and dirty. The razors to the wrists and manufactured poisons have rendered them unconscious. What a shame, just a snarl that’s rabid and bites.
Just a state; they blink awake. Ready? I start with the letter “A.”
Alligator, alfredo, artist, and analogy. I paint words cached with intrigue to challenge the mind, and stroke the soul, all while I supply a salve.
I want to stay home pretending to be sick. But just as a losing poker hand has no outs, neither do I; in a three-legged race, their risks and losses are my own.
I cannot turn back, not from the ones that have their work cut out. I will be their most prominent champion, as they have everything to gain, and I dare not miss one moment.