Rest, My Ass

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.