If people look closely
They'll see that I'm dragging my left ankle
against concrete sidewalks

I've been trying to twist it back into shape
even added peach foundation to hide
weird bruises and a sick ET color
Funny thing is, it doesn't hurt
Feels like carry-on luggage,
heavy and cumbersome

I try to explain the mystery
flipping through my mental rolodex of events
to assign cause and blame
usually the easiest thing to do
when trying to quiet the banging mental monkeys,
is chock it up to a party
attribute it to a blackout that probably occurred
with a fifth margarita in hand, salt lining lips
while sitting on a faded brown couch
with cigarette burns, charred polka dots
Maybe that's when a cocker spaniel bit me

Frothy waves of relief pass over me,
A part of me feels nothing
Can you imagine what that's like?
Not to care, worry about what she or he thinks,
how you're doing at work, where your career is going,
where your life is headed, what to have for dinner,
if true love really exists,
or if it all fades into who will buy the milk or feed the cat,
if you put down the toilet seat, picked up the dry cleaning,
called your parents on Sunday, burnt the roast, exercise enough,
where you came from and where you're going,
and when exactly you're going to exit the building

This ankle, devoid of skin tone, obscenely twisted,
feels dead
death cascades through my veins
like Guatemalan worry dolls surfing on blood
I won't visit my GP
I'd rather not find out what it is,
or fix, cure or soothe it
There's freedom in the rot
The stench reminds me that I am changed