by Pat Connors

It took a sprained knee—
swollen, stiff, and sore—
to force me to take
a Saturday off.

No backyard barbecues
or epic excursions to the bar.
No agitated trips to a stadium
to support one of my teams.

No poetry readings
no requirements, real or imagined
other than to be here, to heal
and prepare for whatever comes.

I sat as still as I could
held an icepack to my knee
felt the breeze waft through
the screen of the sunroom door

tried to clear my head
remember a time I didn’t feel weak
took an anti-inflammatory pill
and wrote the first draft of this poem.

— from Juniper Volume 2, Issue 1