Hardly sunshine on my shoulder, more
a craven field of cobbled pain, the cause
a ruptured axillary artery complaining.
You can hear it hurt; it capers in my face –
each sharp, indrawn breath reflects the
needles stabbed rudely into a candid
tenderness, each momentary lapse of
memory – where arm moves reflexively,
crudely brings me back.
Explosive hurts that flash a warning light,
bright and pointless; I know its causes
painfully identified by ultra sound
applied with blithe technical efficiency, the
entire range of flexion adroitly examined –
antipathetic to evidence it really hurt.
There is respite in dream-disturbed sleep but
what is that to do with poetry? Let me explain –
my right shoulder, I am right handed. Got it?
No? Well if my verse seems inflamed it is because
NSAID medication contains a dosage far too weak
to even colour tea, and so be it!
© 30 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
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