Shooting, wracking pains

Whenever I experience shooting, 
wracking pains up my torso, down 
one hip and both legs, I take distinct 
pleasure in the jaunty insouciance 
by which I continue to traipse, 
strive, stoop to conquer and stride 
in aimless grace, giving no sign 
of pain. I consider myself stoic, 
not impervious. Mere impassive. 
I draw a line in equanimity and 
respond straight down it without 
veer, pause, wobble or keening 
wail. I consider all these things 
valid, despite technically I never 
have shooting, wracking pains 
of the kind described. This is 

how you inhabit hypotheticals, 
bravely to face and confront 
worst- and worse-case. This 

is how you know what you 
would do. How you would 
behave, should you ever. 

Mighty well, I reckon 
and reconnoiter. With 
a brave, indomitable 
grin or similar. Perhaps 
a placid innocence, or 
a harsh, barking laugh 
like cathedral bells 
tolling rude joy all 
through the town! 

I am 
I confess 
no bad ass. 

I am more 
or less good, as aim 
strikes true. 

As to "ass," 
I shrewdly prefer 
the term fool.