Something inevitable as Old Pain

It hits me in the neck, in my morning bed,
like malicious elf from nightmare;

no more nod or shake, it orders, or
you will fly right into hell of the 
childbirth throes in your neck--
alas, the pain, souvenir of age--

Cautiously, I look to the side;
as if being alone in a tipsy boat,
drifts far from the shore;
then thrown back, forehead planted on
to the pillow, panting, tears oozing; 
every day, apply the cream, three times,
with a devotion of care for elderly mother,
for over two months.

     still, the pain lingers,
     as the landlord
     demands all the past due.
with the high red ebbs, I wonder,
what is next? Can it be slow and benign? 

©Byung A. Fallgren