Several months
Almost a year
Of debilitating pain
Which, however optimistic
One may be superficially
The doubt still remains
The question remains
Will I be cured
Will I be made better
Such that the sleep
Will itself be longer
Than the two hour snatches
Such that the sitting
And the stride about walking
Will be without recourse
To a massage of the shoulder
Or without the need
To nudge a little to the right
I notice the margin is sloping
Yet this is no love poem
No story of abject loss, or lust
For that matter neither a tome
To express the slain of heartbreak
Or the overdue longing of the unrequited
No, not so, however much
I might write of the frozen shoulder
You will always nag away at me
