You'd think

You'd think, wouldn't you

That in all this 'time off'

I'd've

* Improved my Spanish

* Written loads

* Attended webinars

* Learned the uke, the harmonica, the piano, the kalimba, the mandolin properly

Ah well, you'd think wrong 

Cause it's not 'time off'

It's time on 

* Being in constant pain

* Getting knackered walking 50 yards on sticks

* Taking 20 mins to unload a dishwasher

* Taking ages to load the washing machine 

* Being too fucked to actually hoover

You know, thinking about it

I'd rather be at work

Complaining 

* That it's raining

* That it's fucking Monday 

* That it's busy

* That it's quiet

* That my back hurts a little bit, but no more than a back normally would in this weather at my age after lifting all those boxes of paper and doing all that high shelving

Maybe one day 

I'll be back

un/grateful

There's new things I can’t do like walking or working

but, see: my book’s flying

I’m not doing housework or cleaning or cooking

but it’s fucking selling

There’s no real connection, but it feels like a tradeoff

a bargain with – who? - someone?

I’ve written nowt decent for – what? - three months?

fuck this interregnum.

Codeine for the fucked back; it smooths me a little

but smothers as much

Drained of motivation, a fight to stay level

but can’t give enough

A waste of this nowhere, unable to battle

toward what I want:

Appointments ahead, Joe, so wait for the phonecall,

and keep your head up

People are shocked when they see me. I’m shorter

than I ever was

Some lose weight: I lost height. Oh how truly funny

a fractured back is

I’m waiting for respite. Stability. Something.

I’m fragile. I rust,

But my book is selling. It just won’t stop soaring:

my spine crumbles, dust.