by Hugo Williams, poet
No more getting better.
No more waking up one morning
feeling like your old self again.
Let’s call what’s-her-name,
see what’s going on.
None of that any more.
No more hitting the street
with a spring in your step
and your knee all right.
Don’t even think about it.
You’d like to go out of course,
to see if you still exist,
but you can’t obey yourself now,
it hurts too much.
You sit in your chair all day,
turning a funny colour.
Where’s that list you made?
Someone takes you by the arm
and says how well you’re looking.
You haven’t changed a bit!
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