Life in Slow Motion
He gets out of bed, shuffles to the kitchen,
pours his coffee, his milk, stands in the door
deciding whether to sit at the table or
shuffle to the sofa.
Conversations odd. He begins
mid-sentence, pauses, his mind
goes over what he was saying, what he might say,
does he really deserve a bowl of ice cream?
Pain does weird things; it pulls us,
bends us, requires us to always acknowledge it,
take meds to placate it,
take meds to dull it, to dull us.
The fractured sternum heals, that pain lessens
as he holds the pillow close to cough.
The arthritis in his neck continues to grow; slow,
deliberate, excruciating pain.
More pain--slower movements,
more pills, more patches, more moans. Thoughts
slide on quiet clouds of Morpheus,
life in slow motion isn't life at all.
Lenora Rain-Lee Good lives and writes in Kennewick, Washington and shares her abode with her cat, Tashiko Akuma Pestini. She has sold four novels, numerous short stories, a few radio dramas, and her poems have appeared in various venues including Anthology on Motherhood and In Transit: Poetry of People on the Move.