Ode to a broken arm

It's been almost five months since the day of my awful bike accident, when my forearm folded in half and I learned of a new level of pain.  I wrote this poem a few weeks after (when my mind wasn't as addled by painkillers) the initial experience and following surgery.  

Ode to a broken arm

Showers weren't the same,

a mending arm raised high

swathed in plastic and elastics 

in a dry salute to the shampoo, 

preserving the cast. 

Dinners have a new dimension. 

In my lap the arm complains,

begins to throb.

The best position is

vertical, hand raised, 

supported by an elbow

like an unspoken meal-time challenge

to arm wrestle the girl

with the metal in her arm. 

Don't think me ungrateful. 

I know full well

a hundred years ago the doctor 

would have shook his head at me and 

said: "That's going to have to come off".