You are kingpin to my comfort,
my non-back-and-leg pain, my sleep
with deep dreams.
I'm sorry, it's only when you get out of line that I notice you.
Only when you slip out to
drink Gordon's in some gin joint
where you're apt to do the twist
on a tabletop with drunks singing
Chubby Checker,
do I realize how nice it is to sit home
with you watching Masterpiece Theatre
after a comforting dinner of spaghetti
and a burly red.
L4, I will never say, To L with you.
But for some reason, you remind me
that as a kid, I liked to write 7734
and turn it upside down, so it spelled
hELL, (Yes, I, too, have been known to stray outside the curve.)
And now, you deserve a gold watch:
68 years protecting the spinal nerves
that move my legs and keep ache at bay.
I can walk seven miles through vineyards
along Lake Geneva with my husband
and daughter! Dance! Have sex
(la petite mort: reason alone to buy
you that Rolex)!
In high school, you were perfect.
I could kick eye-high as a cheerleader,
do the splits right down to the ground.
Oops, maybe
that's why you can't stay in one place.
Sorry my musty muscles no longer
support you enough.
You're a sport for obeying Dr. Sun
today when he popped you back in.
I know you'll behave—for a while
at least, not trying to convince other
lumbars, nor cervical, thoracic, sacrum,
coccyx to join your sprees.
Thank for doing your best
in this marathon, even if you have to
slip-slide me across the finish line.