Waiting to Find Out

I know the sound — the give, the particular

pop that isn't quite a pop. The way

the ankle says I remember you. Wet curb

outside the pharmacy. November. Gray

and cold and the prescriptions in a bag

swinging from my wrist while I just held

the hood of someone's car and stood there.

This is the third time. The first, I fell

while running, twenty-something. The second,

a trail I had no business on alone.

Now a curb. A pharmacy. My hand flat

on someone else's car. I've grown

into this, apparently —

the specific second of not knowing yet

what kind of day I'm in.

I lowered the foot.

Tested.

Sore.

Not broken.

Drove home. Iced it.

Didn't tell anyone.