I twitch and twitch
and still these stitches itch.
Beneath the cast are plainly massed
all itches of the world
I can not scratch beneath the cast
and so must twitch
and dream of when the itch is fixed.
Poem- Once January 14, 2015
Once upon a time
when someone was laid up
visitors would send cards
friends would deliver flowers
your buddies brought balloons
until the sick room was transformed
into a jolly place, papered in good wishes.
Now,
the wishes are all virtual
and the distraction is digital.
If only the pain was, too.
poem-sliced January 12, 2015
I was broken.
You sliced me,
knife blade deep,
peeling back skin,
excavating muscle,
exposing bone.
Then you
wound in screws,
stitched me together,
wrapped me in glass
and left a slash of
pulsing agony
to remember you by.
.
.
(Dedicated to Dr. Parfitt my orthopædic surgeon. 🙂 Sounds so much better as a metaphor; unfortunately he did all this literally!) 😉
Shawn L. Bird 