Sonnet 118

“Your weak Achilles your Achilles is”:
The physiotherapist’s dry wit. I wince.
I emphasise I stretched, and all that jizz.
She brooks not my entreaties. “How long since
you pranged it?” Several weeks. I hobble first
thing, until it warms up. Ok to run
on normally within a month. But worse
this time. The Sybil cackles. “Time? Time’s done
this. Time.” Mad scrawl on oak leaves. “Pharmacist.
For non-steroidals. Go now. Sacrifice.
And write such elegiac as thou list
unto Apollo, for his benefice.”
I hurry home, and from my parched well’s drought
this strangulated pizzle dribbles out.