Lumbago in middle age

The cushion of my desire is plump,
and beckons boldly,
waiting for my back to sink back
softly into sleep,
caressing gently.

Reality is different.
My feet press hardly on the lumpy
seat, my bottom strains, 
against compressing pants 
that have and hold.

My nerves fire pain from back
to foot and back again
that cramps and grasps,
unseen, beneath my skin,
beneath my pale, unfettered skin.

Bring me tea to drink
I will not think of poppy,
wine, or other far off dreams.
Somewhere the world is beautiful
and there is peace.

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