Jointed Pain

The bruise blooms

like a stubborn bruise should,

a purple-blue bruise

just below the stubborn joint.

I hit the chipped corner

of that kitchen counter—

something wooden,

something sharp enough

to make the dull ache pulse,

a steady reminder

with every accidental brush,

with every accidental knock

that this elbow still remembers.

It’s the kind of pain

that won’t quit,

like a cheap joke

you’ve heard too many times,

but still, it’s mine,

this jointed pain,

throbbing stubborn,

like a bad rhyme

that drags along

past its welcome.