Count the Small Victories - A poetic homage to living with chronic pain

With the rising sun, it has returned once more.

As eyes pry open from restless sleep, it is there,

just on the periphery of consciousness, like

an unwelcomed 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.