I have are
three short-short days.
Monday changes me,
of me, how
of me over —
I’m not sure to what.
After Monday, what?
Obviously thinking about my practically-here surgery. Last night I slept restlessly, kept trying to turn and turn again. I say “trying” because every attempt woke me with the sharp memory of just how much my knee isn’t really acting the team player these days. Trying to walk quickly tonight down the short stretch between my subway and my bus … but I couldn’t go fast, not the speed I remember being able to walk years ago, even several months ago. It’s time. I know it’s time.
Mostly I just wish I had another couple of weeks to get my act together — finish a thousand things both big and small that I wanted to have out of the way before this moment. A few of them will still get done, but only a few. And then I’ll be weeks and weeks away from them, which will be both easy and extraordinarily difficult.
Three days. Three. And then a weird, indefinite limbo period. And then? A new me with a new knee? I guess only time can answer that one.
An Arun: a fifteen-line poem in three sets of five lines. Each set of five lines follows the same syllable structure: starting with one syllable and increasing by one (1/2/3/4/5 — 3x).