The grape Powerade
hit my tongue
and I wasn’t
hit with taste
but with memory,
long nights
in July heat
on the second floor
of an old factory,
packed in zany socks,
white heat,
and scorecard metal,
blades singing electric
and metallic
and I was hit with grief,
the truth about my crooked back
and my escapist knee,
and wicked obesity,
truly now,
wholly now,
holding me
back from a thing
I want to do,
the memories of sweat
and smiles
and jokes
and dominance
and fear
and fury
and a gentle stomp
that I’m not
capable of anymore
because I’m afraid of breaking
and now I’m breaking
and I think I’m ready
to go under the knife.