Something there is that doesn’t love my legs
Something that places holes in the out field
Where bored little leaguers look at their toes
And dig at the grass with their cleats.
Something that waits for the one
Strong hit that surprises you and
Has you running for the fly ball
With your head up and sun in your eyes.
Something that waits for you to
Step down wrong twisting your ankle
Dropping you into the freshly mowed grass
As the ball drops several feet behind you
And the coach yells for you to get up
And field the ball before the runner gets home.
Something that lets him see you limp
Back to the dugout and yell for you
To hustle and to walk it off as if
Both commands could be followed
By a youngster with a hurt ankle.
Something there is that doesn’t love my legs.
Something that allows the doctor to ignore
A child’s pain to allow the ankle to stiffen
And cause a change in the child’s gate
And a limp that you will have your whole life.
Something there is that draws you in to
Second string high school sports where
Your knees are cranked and jostled with
You as the tackling dummy for the better players.
Something there is that fills the pothole
In the parking lot of your first apartment
With leaves flush to the level of the blacktop.
Something that draws you to that point
To step down hard and twist your ankle again
To be given crutches and three days off work
That you choose not to take because you can’t
Afford the time off. So you grin and bear the pain
With an ankle brace and a boot laced tight to work.
Something there is that kicks at your knee
When you have your cousin’s ex-girlfriend’s brother
Held by the throat and slammed against the wall
Because he said he was going out to his car for his gun.
Something that wouldn’t let his sister tear you off him
And wouldn’t let her punches to the back of you head
Remove your hands from the brother’s stupid throat
But would let her kick your knee sideways until
Your tendons tore and you came crashing down
And your body filled with the white static of pain
Screaming timber as you fell with her brother on you
And your knee gave way until your ankle and hip met.
Something that had you in a knee brace for months
And pain and instability in that leg for years to come.
Something there is that doesn’t love my legs.
Something there is that hides boxes in the dark
For you to find them with your little toe when
You get up in the middle of the night to pee.
For you to be surprised in the morning when you are
Still limping and you are sure your toe is broken.
And you don’t see the doctor because how big
Of a deal could a broken toe even be. So what if you limp?
Something there is that gets you up on a skateboard
After twenty-five years, and you do well until that one day
When you fall because you hit a pebble going too slow,
And you fall in slow motion because your foot is caught
And you come crashing down slamming your butt
To your ankle and causing your knee to burn like it’s on fire.
Something that gets you back up on injured knee and ankle
In seconds because the mean neighborhood dog
Has seen this as the perfect time to come to maul you.
Because you are on the ground and moaning in pain.
But you manage to chase off the dog skateboard in hand,
And you limp home uncertain that your leg can hold.
Something there is that doesn’t love my legs.
Something that gets you to listen to your son
As you are riding him around the yard on the back
Of your motorcycle and he yells “Faster, faster!”
Something that causes a few close calls when the
Yard is muddy from recent rains, so you go slow.
But something there is that doesn’t love my legs
So you come down a steep drop at nearly a crawl
And hit the gas to have enough speed for the next hill.
But something there is that doesn’t let you know
Just how muddy that spot truly is and your back tire
Spins free and slides out fast and you don’t know how,
But you put your foot down to balance the bike.
But you forget to let off the gas and the bike still slides.
Your foot catches on the ground and you hear
Three sickening pops from your knee as you are
Thrown from the bike and your son falls
To the ground behind you. And you ask if he is ok
after you remember that he was on the bike with you.
You know there is something wrong with your leg
And it hurts too much to turn and face your son,
So you ask over your shoulder if he can walk
And he says he can’t. So you tell him to lie with you
In the grass until you can get some help on the phone.
But he is up and looking at your leg and asking if you are ok
Because something there is that doesn’t love my legs
And that something seems to like his just fine.
Something there is that gets him to get his grandmother
To come down in the riding mower with its yellow trailer
To haul you hump, bump, bump up the rutted hill
And have you holding on to the epaulets of your boot
To keep your broken leg from flopping back and forth
As you were hauled up hill and across the yard to the car.
Something there is that doesn’t love my legs.
Something there is that made the emergency room
Doctor cast your leg and give you crutches
Claiming that you had broken my leg “clean in half.”
But the specialist claimed it was a baby fracture.
And he frowned at you, shook his head, and said,
“You have been walking on it, haven’t you?”
And you told him how much of a baby you were
How scared you were to do more damage to it.
And he continued to frown and accuse with his tone,
“You have been walking on it, haven’t you?”
therichardbraxton 