Emptor

Nobody in their right mind
Would want a body stuck together
With blood, tied with rags, patched
With thatch and tar and mud,
A horizon revealing nothing
But antalgic gait, limping forever
But generally safe from a fall.

I suppose all life is accustomed
To pain, and thence the brawl
Between the parts that hum
And those that groan and catch--
So I've become inured to some
More dramatic hitches in the
Cadence of my body's crawl,

But I warn anyone who would so
Much as approach or, worse, attempt
To polish this worn-out shape, this tarnished
Form: the insult of the daily bruise
(The hidden whip-sting on the skin)
Is too much for the man within.

Does a prisoner prefer a scripted blow
To the crushing end he doesn't know?
I wait for my daily dose of pain
And long to know the unknown again.

EJR