A poem of Helen's I found whilst shuffling paper for the coffin project

I don't remember this one - perhaps it hasn't been published, perhaps she didn't feel it was finished, or maybe I've just forgotten it. Kaye may be able to tell me when it's from - sounds like it might be a while ago though. I like it. I reckon a lot of us can relate to this feeling at some time or other. Warning - it's a bit sad! But emblematic of resilient nonetheless as she stayed on the road for a good twenty years or so after the time this refers to! So sudden this mental turnaround of mine I who've earned my bread from dealing with hard cases, am suddenly drained dry. Should I report in sick? Should I soldier on? Should I take leave? Who'd have thought I was some binary system my responses like a computer ON?OFF? It takes me by surprise. It makes me frightened, useless, a dried shell. Where should I go? Like old bike-tyres the tread is worn off me. I didn't do wheelies nor burning skids, but on the long rides of the last two years and the thirty plus before I didn't know the rubber had worn so thin. Are there retreads available? Bald tyres get put off the road. Unsafe. BTW apologies for the lack of formatting with this poem - that is not how she intended it to be laid out but seems to be how it's coming today...