Forty years sober, eighteen years married
this wise kind man who claims there are
no bad days, who lives with persistent pain
insists there are no bad days.
His back’s been manipulated and fused
with metal rods and newly grown bone
to no good end and yet he will tell any
and all that there are no bad days.
Sleeps poorly, uses crutches, a scooter
to move about and yet: no bad days.
I want half his good will
half his acceptance
half his equanimity
half his serenity
half his pluck.
There they were again
that couple the lovely two
he peeking mischievously
around the corner at me
she following along behind
both of them smiling despite
his constant back pain
now riding a scooter
claiming there are no
bad days counting
himself blessed
forty years sober
now helping others.
Pinched nerve knotted muscle dreadfulness
in my neck just as I held that African necklace
to my throat. Ach! Was it cursed?
The gorgeous fat ochre bead so stunning
nevertheless stabbing pain took me away
and superstition kept me from going back.
My neck my Achilles heel my raison d’etre
my love and my nemesis tries to tell me All
yet I fail to comprehend.