Lower back pain: the great leveler, literally, since I am currently as horizontal as the x-axis on a graph measuring absolute zero verticality.
Recumbent in my bed, I am laid out like that patient etherized upon a table Eliot likened to an evening spread out against the sky.
But I don't feel very evening sky-ish. My condition is more a sort of aggressively plowed field experiencing tectonic plate tremors in the hollow near the old stone wall. It's a frigid morning and I'm concerned the farmer will be planting a painfully large crop of sciatica in my sensitive furrows.
Ouch. And ouch again.
So much for extending the metaphors of the modernist poet. I suppose I really should be scheduling extensive stretching exercises instead of paraphrasing Prufrock. After all, physical therapy is the muse of the incapacitated. That strict hexameter of my aching spine needs to become the free verse of a lissome, spasm-free torso.
Or I could just take an aspirin and stop obsessing.