That Specific Dome

The hot water takes its time to come.

I know this. Sat on the tile floor

with my arms around my legs, the hum

of the building doing what it does before

I'm ready for the day, and looked

down at the word: kneecap.

Kept my thumb there. I had it booked—

no bruise, no catch, just the cap,

pale, domed, slightly wrong-looking now,

a thing I've carried without inspection

for years. I don't know how

a word goes empty—the connection

between the name and what it names

just drains out, goes arbitrary,

two syllables playing games

with a body part I carry

everywhere, apparently,

without much thought.

I pressed my thumb again. Transparently

checking for what I haven't got.

The steam arrived. I stood.

The word came back. That quick.

I didn't understand it. Good.

The mirror fogged. The pipes. The click

of things resuming.