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.

6 responses »

  1. We keep saying. ‘on bended knees’ –

    – I beg you
    – marry me
    – forgive me
    – I honour you
    – I pray

    Okay, and so you shall until I decide that I wish not to bend anymore – get that other fellow, the back, to bend for the rest of your life. It’s time, I stood —- stiff!

  2. This is exquisite and funny and poignant. I like the way you wield humor. My knees can relate but also my wrists (especially the right one) echo more than a tinge and a pang for the remembrance of things past.

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