Day 4: Tension
These days, when I pinch or grip anything with with my right hand
there’s a sharp pain.
It started happening almost literally
as I turned 50.
I was warned of this.
Long ago, in my 20s,
when I gripped trapezes
on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays,
manipulated swords and men
on Fridays and Saturdays (and all summer weekends),
and when I made my meager meal money
putting books back on library shelves
in order
pushing them together with my wrists
Doing all this, when I then hoisted a Shakespearean forest fairy head high,
wings on forearm like a lightning rod,
A Doctor did warn me. He said,
I nearly had carpal tunnel, and
He was frankly surprised it wasn’t full blown.
I was 25.
Now, I’m 50, and I need to get those dishes in the sink
done
But I’ve got to write this poem first.
So I get up, but instead of chores,
I pour
A Seedlip and tonic, extra bitters,
and it’s hard to unscrew the cap
on the tonic
Without sharp pain in that foredigit.
But I grit my teeth and grip
Enough to get it open,
Also closed enough to keep the bubbles intact and active.
I would like to rub the sore shoulders
of my partner (also 50), but
There’s too much pain in that pressure.
All I can do is shelve
These dishes, fold
This laundry into tight corners, stack
Those into their drawers, and
Tone the tonic with a pill.
Or a cream.
“Living the dream,” a friend said
(also in their 50s)
when asked how they were.
It’s the Way We Live Now.
At least we do.
Or, at most?