Raise a Cripple

He made beautiful silver trays,
their wooden backs worked
as smooth as his mother's skin.
Each tray had a different pattern,
the silver slithered away
with as much care as his mother
took, raising him –  cripple boy,
broken legs.

Twenty trays in one week:
It couldn't be done, they said.
You can't raise a cripple,
they said.

And when no one wanted trays,
he took to repairing shoes
with as much care as his mother
repaired him every time he fell.
For twenty-five years he mended,
polished, punched, hammered new.
The leather sparkled like silver,
like he sparkled after his mother
slapped the breath back inside.

And when no one wanted shoes repaired
because they could afford to buy new,
he retired and treated himself
to an electric chair, handmade
shoes for his bent feet, the best silver
tray served for his dinner, all the time
he had for his mother - his savings
spent on keeping her in her favourite
chocolates.

And when she died
and no one wanted him anymore
he died.