by Ariel Douglas (July 2016)

 

Every morning it’s the same

The two sit together, just inside the door

Like two medieval soldiers taking the night watch

At the gate to the palace.

 

Seated, yes, the soldiers are seated

But not from laziness

Oh, what these two soldiers wouldn’t give

To stand

At their post instead.

 

These two soldiers sit at their post

Everyday

Watching each other’s backs

Waiting for the inevitable attack

That sometimes goes unnoticed

By the inhabitants of the castle.

 

These two soldiers sit

On their steeds of iron, pleather, and rubber

They chat, but their eyes still twitch

Surveying their post for possible threats

Two soldiers at their post

Waiting for the bell to sound

Calling them into battle.

 

Oh, how many have doubted them?

Shamefacedly, I must admit

That I have been numbered in those ranks

“Weak” is the catchphrase

Whispered behind hands

But no! I won’t allow it!

For it there is one word that ne’er will describe them

It is the word “weak”.

 

Their armor is thick and scarred

But that is not evident to an untrained eye

Swords made of plastic, steel, and rubber

A shield wielded in the form of life

But, alas, their crude armor is despised

And “rude”, “whiny”, “annoying” become their labels

These two soldiers take on

The fiercest and heaviest of blows from all sides

But somehow survive to take up their post again tomorrow.

 

These soldiers are mere children

As I, myself, still am

The castle is their school

And also their battle ground

Their swords and shields

Are crutches and oxygen machines

Their steeds their trusty wheelchairs

And everyday they fight a battle few can understand

“Strong!” I say, more so than you or I

For somehow each morning they have strength to come and man their guardpost.