Poem: Bones

BY HARRY WALTZMAN

I live between the bones of my body,
and take false steps frequently.
My surgeon says,
two of my vertebrae kiss
and cause spasms in my back.
In the morning I always squeak
until the sun rises and warms my bones

The latest pain killers make me
worry about side effects to my kidneys.
What a tradeoff- to be able to bend
from the waist or to lose the ability to wet
the seat.

At a wake recently, I tiptoed past the open
coffin, didn’t like the color of the satin lining.
The deceased wore a silk robe.
When seated, I hummed a tune to him.

  poem