Prompt: Write a poem with the title "The trouble with (blank)" and fill in the blank. (Actually "problem with" but we're allowed to depart from the prompt.)
Now I need to write the title here again, for continuity:
The trouble with my leg
is the pain. And it’s constant.
That is, it’s there all the time
like a dull headache, and when
it flares up it’s excruciating.
It makes me cranky and I’m sorry.
I’ll try not to be so grumpy.
I’m going to watch television.
I can’t concentrate on anything else.
Yes I got an x-ray. Yes, of my leg.
That didn’t do any good at all.
And I’m only allowed to take
six Panamax in one day.
Yes I know the doctor said
I could take more. I’ll
decide on that if you don’t mind.
I don’t like taking tablets.
I don’t know what I want.
I can’t stand, I can’t walk.
I can’t even think. Why
can’t you tune in or something?
(No, this isn’t me. It’s a “found” poem –
found in someone else’s conversation.)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
2 comments:
glad it's a found poem. I had a leg like that a couple years; nasty. all better now, gone as completely as a storm. I left today's PAD in the comment at Humanyms.
Oh, ta! I'll go have a look. Didn't find it yet amongst the many on Poetic Asides.
Post a Comment