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Morning Ritual
Check the arms;
do they move?
Cant be sure until I feel the fabric
sliding roughly over the skin of my hand.
The hands next;
try the index finger,
pulling it into a bend against the pain.
My knuckles would whimper, if they could.
If the finger bends, I try the thumb,
and wiggle it, cautiously.
Opposable thumbs are a big deal,
to all of us upper primates,
but when they dont move on command,
I feel bumped down the evolutionary ladder.
I rest for a moment.
This is hard work,
and before I rise from my bed,
Ill be tired again.
My back is on fire,
and I can neither move,
nor lay still any longer.
Someone has knotted the fibers,
and twists them,
like wringing out a dampened towel,
to force out all of the moisture,
before snapping it at somebodys butt
in the shower room.
I work my way down the body,
checking off the aching muscles,
the burning, grating joints,
and building up my courage,
for the big performance of my morning.
Finally, the moment comes.
All systems are Go!
I can find no more excuses,
that might keep me in my bed.
The drums roll,
the crowd is hushed,
the arms move,
the counterpane is thrown back,
at quite a cost.
I slide my legs out into space,
clutch my crutches,
and
Ladies and Gentlemen!
Hes up for the day!
Copyright © Kim Bretton Hetrick June 2000
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