Since the Blizzard of 1978

I've meant to write you a poem.
It was supposed to have something to do
with running into the edges of tables, bruises at mid thigh.
It would have wrenching metaphors like David Citino's "The Dancing of Bees, The Progress of Multiple Sclerosis."
It would inject Beta Interferon and stilt its left ankle that crumples when strained.
It would say something about the nerves in your arms that ache with a swiveling pain you can never locate.
(Here, right here. It hurts here.)
It would iron at 4:00 a.m. to flatten out leg cramps and finally talk about the time when I was seven,
racing to the only open stall.
I didn't understand that you needed to go first.
Sometimes you ask to see something I've written but I'm waiting for that poem,
the one about MS and I'm getting impatient for the words.
It's like the time I was visiting and reading in the living room.
You were folding laundry.
You said, Put down that book and talk to me.
Like you,
I feel demanding.