Charlie Horse Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

We drove to see a play
I'd only read.
I'm really glad
my seat was on the aisle.
Act V, scene iii
all eyes were watching,
while old Lear holds in his arms
Cordelia, dead.
The only dry eyes in the house
were mine.
(All tears
were beaten out of me
when young)
Instead, a ham string knots.
I jump.
I'm strung out on the carpet,
bent,
with bouncing spine.
It's years since you have gone,
not months or days.
Not every thought's
disheartening to me.
Not every ache
springs from a memory.
I feel your loss
in many different ways.
Yet there are times
I find the slightest strain
can zap and twist my soul
in wrenching pain.