Injury Poem
By Robert Ronnow
My face tells me nothing. Not nothing but nothing useful,
the
complications of ageing humorously but not exactly how
to avoid
injury.
Permanent injury is a now popular cliché. At this age any
injury
could result in pneumonia, pain in bitterness for your
peers,
your jury.
What a headache I have! And never forget injury
provokes
at best only pity. Friends are merely friendly, they belong
to the
majority.
They forget your name and so should you, who are you?
Even you
don’t know for sure. In relation to community, no change
was noted in the
registry.
Still, man’s mercy, economy’s ecology, there’s some joy
in being small,
some joy in staying strong, and keeping death before
you without
perjury.
Unsafe to run the wind. A big stick might hit your head.
Then
the hip and heart and head will hurt, all three. Un-
fortunately.
I like a strong wind. Dangerous to go out in. As a fire or
flood.
I like the way we are at risk, not a risk-averse weasel. A
carnivore,
very hungry.
Pay money, take chances. Yo’s an elegant contraction of
you.
Cool. Message from street to board: mongrels rule.
Democracy or
tyranny.
Scared to die? Why? Take appropriate measures,
descend through
meditation. Be empty, rest. And to your friends and sons
be as
gravity.
Tired of death. It’s what it is. Let’s play sports, have sex,
kayak
to the huckleberries, fish for marvelous fish, live a
wonderful life, give
generously.
Done blowing, O wild wind? Not yet? So be it. I lay my
head
in your felt hands. The motion of the branches,
evolutionary branches, are my
guarantee.
That’s all folks,7: 30. The sky is clear, the crows are out.
The clouds
are with my mood commensurate. I should shout, having
lived
prodigiously.
