Bruised Patella
I wear my beanie into X-ray
and the techie asks where’s the propeller!
The boner poking out of my gingham
does not deter him as he boosts me up
onto the table and bends my knee
for the lens. Then leaves,
seems gone extra long as if he might be
doing something he shouldn’t behind
the little window. Or maybe he’s making
an independent short film. Who’s to say
as I lie dreaming of my femurs
long and strong, each pivoting in
its smooth acetabulum: my whole skeleton
poised atop a snow white Schwinn: breeze
drafting its sharps and flats
through the natural keys of my ribs. Done,
now standing in my denims, tight T, I tell
the techie and his juniors there to gawk:
my beanie’s for protection. I tip it
for a peek at no textbook skull!