Arthritic Paranoia
Angled sun late morning
through chalice windows.
Quiet house alone.
I'm offering up a sacrifice of pain
for the indulgence of a demanding god.
This would have been my mother's advice
once when arthritis
was only a word on an aspirin bottle.
The body feels itself. My hand
over the coffee, interrupts
warm vapor rising
like a fragrant spirit.
Behind me the rigid cold.
Outside is the dripping, glistening world
where death is everywhere
and short life indifferently snuffed.
I'll shake the stiffness soon,
and return to my wooden work,
chastised for now, but
how long does this go on and
does it progress toward some end,
preparing my lonely soul for a purgatory
when one day my step
does not clear the predator's jump?
http://ricpoems.blogspot.com/
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