The Joint

The elbow caught

on the table's edge.

Just the bone pressing too hard

against wood,

a dull click like something unlocking.

Coffee getting cold in the other hand.

Phone face-down.

The pain isn't sharp—

it's specific, located,

a small rebellion in the joint.

I'd been propping my chin there for ten minutes,

thinking about nothing,

the way you do in the morning

before the day actually starts.

The table has a scratch from last year.

The elbow has a throb from this morning.

Both of us wearing down in different ways.

I pull my arm back slowly,

test the motion,

feel the hitch.

It's fine. It'll be fine.

But for one second I understood

that this body is its own country

and sometimes

it declares independence

without asking permission.

I pick up the coffee.

It's cold now.