Well and Truly Screwed

My right humerus shortly before (l) & after (r) surgery. The vertical line with holes is a 6-inch steel plate; the horizontal bars are screws.

Rather belatedly, here's the overwhelming winner of Miss Snark's Get Humerus Poetry Contest, who I hope will step forward--along with all the other anonymous poets--so I can convey effusive personal thanks:

#62
A Confucian get-well sentiment:

I hear your arm hurts
nothing make bone happier
than a real good screw


Runner-up was #4, which provoked special hilarity because Darling Husband lost his pants years ago:

Sorry for your bone
At least it's not Alzhei--
Where have my pants gone?


My special favorites:
#41
Bored of counting the ceiling tile
She offered to help with the slush pile
Bella held up her bedpan
And asked Miss Snark in a deadpan
Would you like a new query file?


#44, by YA author & veterinarian Christine Fletcher

Gomez, was it a bee
That compelled
You to propel our Bella
Into a post

Or just cussedness

You’re a horse so
We trust you had no
Plan involving
Fences

Much less, consequences
For bones

And yet
A moment’s regret?
A tiny Sorry from
A tiny brain

And then
Oats.


#10, who gets a special Robert Frost Parody award

One bone diverged in a writer's arm
And, sorry it did not mend as well
As they had told her, doctors warm
On other ways to undo that harm
Which came upon her when she fell

They called the interns, young and fair
Though having perhaps a lesser claim
Because they had trouble rememb'ring where
The humerus was, and would declare
The trouble to be that she was lame

And so next morning nurses tried
And poked till she was blue and black
Oh! They never finished, so she'd hide
Her record chart, till one of them spied
It peeping out of her laundry sack

I now come to the part where she,
Sick of waiting ages since
The doctors had told her she'd be free,
Tried healing it through poetry
And that has made all the difference