The pain
in my elbow
continues,
making it difficult
to write.
To type.
To sleep at
night.
To live my
life in general.
Bowls and pans
too heavy.
I stop serving
your food,
you have to
carry your own
oatmeal,
or soup
or kitchari.
You have to iron
your own shirts
too,
but put it off
until I do.
When Mark Twain’s
arthritis got bad
he wrote left
handed.
My left thumb
is among my
worst joints.
I pare things
down,
three of this
or that,
three to write,
three to type,
three to file
or send.
I try to find
a rhythm,
a way.
As I always
have.

1/16/02