By U. S. DHUGA
No compunction, my physiotherapist
Exits, kale juice in hand, the Raw Chemist
With the swagger of a Neoptolemus
Who will lie to me, to you, to all of us
For the sake of winning what he mythifies
As our battle. I watch him pause, flex his thighs,
Draw a single, surreptitious Pall Mall
(Menthol-filtered) from his Nike carryall.
I tighten the brace back round my ankle
Wondering if and when we’re setting sail.
Today the greaved pain is barely bearable.
Not so my personnel.
U. S. Dhuga’s new book is The Sight of a Goose Going Barefoot.
