My right forearm / wrist has had sharp pain
since work Wednesday morning
when I took out a garbage bag
filled with matcha pudding.
I missed work on Thursday
and I took care of my hand
using a homemade sling –
actually a resistance band.
I downed a gallon of chocolate milk
for the protein and calcium,
and what do you know…
I could’ve been a decent doctor.
When I returned to work on Saturday,
there was some hope that somebody would notice.
I told a colleague
about my boo boo.
And I reaggravated
my boo boo.
But nobody really cares about your problems.
There’s a sink at work that has stabbed
nine tiny holes on my other forearm
plus a long gash for good measure.
I feared looking like a heroin user,
but now I see a constellation.
I told a co-worker – she saw it happen –
and she said it doesn’t happen
to anyone else.
because I’m some kind of dummy.
Who really cares?
For a couple of years now
the arch of my left foot
sometimes has sharp pain.
Maybe it’s because of the weight gain.
Maybe it’s because I jumped off
a twelve foot boardwalk
one day during my Dark Era
and an old foot injury says hello
from time to time
after all those years.
Sometimes, I walk like my father now
with his short, quick strides,
a slight limp,
and a pissed off look on his face.
I wanted to be my father in some ways,
but not in that way.
I should’ve cared about his problems.
It could be karma.
I don’t believe in karma.
when I go out for a night of drinking,
I could feel the dull aches of my liver
trying to tell me
that it can’t take it
like it used to.
Nobody ever really cares about your problems.
But I hear you, body.
I feel you…
I think I’m proud of these “scars”.
I used to be scared of growing old,
but there are some things that happen
that make me contemplate
if I really care.
So, body, who really cares?