Poems and Poetry

Therapy | A Poem by J.K. Durick

I have become a bundle of nerves, a bag of bones
Of strained tendons and stiff joints, a chorus of
Complaints, a character in a story about aging;
I sit for hours in waiting rooms, various doctors
Get their chance to pock and prod, to ask their
Questions and nod and then off they send me;
This time to physical therapy where they pock
And prod, ask questions and nod, but now I get
To stretch and bend, turn my head to the right
Even get to nod, I flex and fume, go about each
Exercise, each new move, religiously, religiously
Devoted to this cult of old age, count each time
Like prayers on beads, the rosary of this time in
My life, while the choir of this pain sings along.

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