Untidy as a traveler, he wakes:
His spine bound up like broken mattress coils,
And starts to stretch for health and pity’s sakes
An aging non-athlete who early toils
He focuses on breathing, pure and slow,
To breathe some space into what’s feeling crushed
And twists himself as far as that will go
Not pushing too hard, never being rushed
So much there is beyond his poor control.
Why he was placed on earth to try to save,
He’ll never understand. A poet’s soul
Not made for great heroics, to be brave —
But yet, he’ll try today, and overmuch,
To heal and help whomever he might touch.