My brother lies in his room
with staples in his stomach,
learning the slow, mumbling language
of healing.
I know that language.
Two hernia surgeries taught me
the body keeps score.
Every scar a little reminder
that we are not machines,
that time is undefeated.
Just stubborn little animals
dragging ourselves through
another sweltering July day.
We lift boxes and couches.
We lift worries.
We lift the ghosts
and the grief
that never learned how to leave.
The doctors tell my brother
take another couple weeks
to heal.
They nicked an artery,
a big hematoma,
another surgery
added to the story.
The body says wait.
The mind says,
get me back to that beautiful fairway,
early in the morning,
when birds and squirrels
sing their symphony of welcome.
I want a golf club in my hands,
the smell of cut grass,
a ball sitting there quietly,
waiting for another bad club choice.
Life is a series of repairs.
A man tightening loose bolts,
patching the cracks,
trying to keep moving
before the final bell rings.
We were never built
for sitting still too long.
The body gets tired,
the bones start keeping receipts,
but something inside us
still wants another round.
Jab, jab, left hook,
keep your hands up,
keep moving forward.
The coffee gets cold.
The market opens.
The world keeps spinning
wildly out of control.
And somewhere beneath
all the scars,
there is still a man
waiting for his next swing.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 21st, 2026 08:02
- Comment from author about the poem: All of my books are available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Thomas-W.-Case/author/B0CL2RKDGX?ref=ap_
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 57
- Users favorite of this poem: Paul Bell, Cheeky Missy, Alan R, Syd, Tristan Robert Lange, cellinic, Teddy.15
Offline)
Comments12
A lovely write about the battles of life. I love the scars as keeping track, hash marks on the side of the plane for those shot down. Well written my friend I have been there too with many a scar to mark past battles
Thank you, my friend.
Always my pleasure Thomas
Yes, you sit down to long, plants grow around you.
Just over that hill is a journey in the making, you've got to go.
Been laid up a few times, drove me nuts.
Thank you, my friend.
We lift boxes and couches.
We lift worries.
We lift the ghosts
and the grief
that never learned how to leave
I really enjoyed this poem. Above are the lines that I relate to the most.
Thanks.
Good write T.
Thank you.
A beautiful write
Thank you.
most welcome
I really enjoyed this well written piece. Quite relatable too as I'm only recently back at work following surgery myself.
- Syd 🍄
I appreciate it.
With a body reinforced with titanium here and there, plastic eyes and technology which proves I still have a brain after it bounced off a hard floor, I am able to enjoy those things still...
Thanks for the reminder, Thomas.
Thanks, my friend.
The Inner Will to just carry on. A fine write.
Thank you.
Thomas, I know something of this language too...the scars, the forced waiting, and the frustration of a mind ready to move while the body refuses. You capture that tension with such humanity and grit. Excellent write! 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you.
A very nice, sincere reflection with reserved mindset and emotional background but leading to well-pronounced sentiments and conclusions. My fave)
Much appreciated.
Beautiful my dear Thomas, and very relatable in this period for me. 🌹
Thanks, sweet Teddy.
A beautiful message on how the world keeps spinning and sometimes in our control but mostly on natures whims.
Thank you.
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