a prose poem on the pain of aging
Lying down for a restful night’s sleep
feeling accomplished
which is saying enough
amidst a pandemic.
Awoken with
a tingling, burning firestorm of pains
that has overtaken your
neck, shoulder, scapula, and radiating heat
pulsing down
your arm
throbbing in your elbow,
and still further down
feathering into your wrist.
Sitting up at the edge of your bed
after slowly unfurling yourself
you try to rub, wend, angle
yourself to pop, adjust, and re-assemble
your Dumpty self back into
a semblance of who you were
physically before lying prostrate
hours ago.
No recollection of dream or vision holds on
and you are left to wonder
if in slumber did you unwittingly
yoga yourself — enter into some imagined pissing contest
to see how long you could hold out in some
torturous pretzeled formation?
Did you play an authoritarian drilling
athletic punishment for some worse recourse?
Or more simply your body gave out on you
for lying still that long without tossing nor turning
and seized, cemented your form?
Remaining is the pain of aging,
where the promise of a good night’s rest
becomes fantasy.
Visual representation of story on @tolbert_on_medium Instagram
