So many memories live in the knees
sounding the bones where ghosts of youth
swim trudgens, swoop downhill on skis.
Not only memory but present truth
waits there, in ambush, stiffly creaking
allies of the faded hair, the longer tooth.
(These suckers couldn’t play a freaking
game of tiddlywinks if it required squatting
I daresay, vernacularly speaking.)
Going now demands pre-plotting.
No more galloping, me beauties,
no more cantering, no trotting.
Look down, slouch low like the agouti;
watch each bend, and fear to lurch.
Simply walking has become a duty.
So when it’s time to take it all to church,
the genuflection is most tentative.
A certain privilege of age? A valid search
for ease… or just a bit retributive?
Only the deity of knees knows whether to forgive.