A Hole in One

Yes, it’s a ball
between my neck and the wall
to squeeze out a pain
that has me in a tight spot.
It’s a ball in the hole
for this old prospector
who went digging for gold
on the office trail.
 
I could have walked away
from the best job ever
but I stayed in the truck
with the rest of my crew:
the deltoids, the rhomboids,
the supraspinatus,
the pectoralis minor
and the levator scapulae.
 
The task was so easy
and the shovel so light.
With a speed so keen,
I dug with my fingertips.
A rich seam of talent
and no time for repairs
as the hole opened wide.
A fuse already lit
to burn pain into that hole.
It would swallow us up
like a grave I dug willingly
for myself and my crew.
 
No, it’s not a toy
to be given away
and I should have walked away
from the worst job ever.
It just swallowed me up.
An early retirement
as self-discipline lingered on,
still hoping, still hoping.
 
Now the crew and I are older,
we’re worn and torn,
living here with all the gold.
We’re fed up with the fixes,
we’re fed up with their failures
and a prod in the back
from quadratus lumborum:
QL, cue heat pad,
cue ice pack.
Quid pro quo,
quids for pain,
I know, I know.

Press hard against the wall,
squeeze out the pain
as a sigh into the sky,
bouncing down and up,
where the no becomes yes.
But the yes is trapped in no
and I should have walked away
but I stayed and I lost
and I stayed and I won.
It’s a prize we all share
with the ball, hole and wall.

Susan Wilson
 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Susan Wilson would be pleased to hear them.