Count the Small Victories
As eyes pry open from restless sleep, it is there,
just on the periphery of consciousness, like
an unwelcome acquaintance who has latched
himself on, leech-like. I don’t wish to be rude,
but I do wish he would go away, dissolve into
not-so-annoying non-entity.
It is now an appendage, so small a name
for so large a force of presence.
“Pain,” I whisper, voice still softened
and slurred by chemical haze. It is lingering
in deductive reasoning, choosing it’s roost
in a veil of secrecy from which to spring
with a rehearsed “Ha!”
Is it the hips today? Once so strong,
swaying in a lover’s embrace, gyrations
of the bridal dance, the cradle of new life,
the seat of babes and baskets in tow.
Now, there are only creaks and groans
in protestation of long-forgotten
swagger.
Perhaps these hands will be the catch
of the day. Hands that once maneuvered
the J-hook, twisting and turning colored yarn
to create warmth and comfort in soft coverlets.
Now, to squeeze and flex and grasp serves
only to remind of losses in a
resounding “No!”
Will the neck make a suitable nest
of nuisance today? Once long and proud,
erect in self-confidence and worth, sometimes
bowing in supplication, while other times
tottering ever-so-slightly in beckoning beauty.
Now, only poses of submission are allowed
without warning.
As I rise from the sheets, my body
begins the rituals of betrayal, frenzied
chants echoing down the corridors of bones
and joints, calling it to determine the day’s
schedule. Shoulders, back, knees, ankles, elbows;
the miracle of creation shies away from
traitorous murmurs.
Pain has many coveted sky-boxes from
which to watch the game and call the plays.
My steps carry me down the hallway,
my mind cheering as I go, pom-poms flashing
in the air. I have reached the coffeepot
and small brown bottles of defensive line
against the adversary.
Score one for the home team.
