Kneecap Complaint

The shoelace, stubborn.

A small chore,

bending over.

And then, the quick,

sharp protest.

My right knee.

The old twist.

A ghost of that pavement,

that sudden give,

the shock of bone

on concrete.

Years back.

Now, just a soft grind,

a low thrum

behind the cap,

where the skin stretches,

thin,

over the memory.

The faded mark still there,

a pale star,

and the blue line,

a river that runs

so close to the surface.

It just reminds me,

quietly,

of everything

that held me up,

and then let go.

Just for a second.

Just enough.