The Pain Descended Like a Metal Plate

 The Pain Descended Like a Metal Plate

(“There is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink and find enjoyment in their toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God.” Ecclesiastes 2:24)

The pain descended like a metal plate,
boxed my head and locked it away. With
all the extra weight
the trail was longer than the day before.
My vision crashes like needles and fog,
I turn a corner and am startled by a puddle
from this morning’s rain. It had not happened before;
I hope it will not happen again.

I have asked before, and still have no answer,
where is the key that unlocks the crushing pressure
nearly cracking my brain. I’m given an
hour
a day for recreation and find time only to recline
to keep the fire away.

I would meet you for tacos, I would. Or coffee and
croissants. But no one knows the hours when the
warden unlocks my cell. I can hardly invite you to
my unkempt ramblings and misfired hope.

I would bring a bottle of wine. It’s true. Or your favorite
Irish whiskey. They are my habitual escape. I forget
I don’t have the combination to free me, and believe me,
I’ll laugh and smile for a while. But I’d rather grin because
I can move my head or my neck or my shoulder without pain
again. Still, I’ll bring the bottle.

Can I send this to you in the mail? It is too long for a text.
If you read it would you understand? Would you think it best
to
bring a chocolate donut to my door. You know why I have
not
visited you often enough, don’t you? You know how my
entire body
is imprisoned by the cold steel of a decade of pain.
You know, since I solo nearly every day, the time may
be short until, insane,
I stop trying to understand anything.

You don’t need to have the key to visit me.
You don’t even need bread. Give me the wine of
your company,
and a few stories from our friends.