I'm a new instrument
in Rochester, the weather
playing my joints like tap shoes
on wood floors or firecrackers
in the road, kicked under cars,
amplified and rattling on and on
like women over a fence.

I blame it on the rain
gathering on the pavement,
on the stiff way my knees tick away
the hours I get older at my desk.

But, my body is writing for me,
punctuating the thoughts I'd let go by,
the double takes,
the way your eyes follow
my wrists to elbows to shoulders
and triple pop:
period, period,
exclamation point.

08/15/2003

Author's Note: for John, in spirit.

Posted on 10/31/2003
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason