The Old Turn

The pavement dropped

a little more than I thought,

and my foot caught,

a quick whip of nerve.

That jolt again,

up the shin,

a familiar, thin

thread of pain.

I grabbed the light post,

held my breath.

It’s always that spot,

that small raised line

of pale scar tissue

just above the bone,

like a knot tied long ago,

still pulling its own.

Now it blooms,

a dull ache,

a steady drum,

for old times' sake.