my foot was always my friend;
my ankle was its buddy
and so was (were) the other one(s),
the set, I mean,
(not to leave it (them) out).
we all got along fine.
they never asked for much
and I was always appreciative—don’t get me wrong—
even if they were not in mind, always.

things are always pressing on my mind,
like getting the boat horn wired
so the Coasties won’t give me a ticket out there.
so I was happy to hook it and bend the roof horn up
and hop around the dock into the boat,
done it a hundred times, thousand probably,
grab the bimini and jump down deck, bam, ouch!
we’re there! hooonk!

it was only a little catch and drag
walking off the dock, yeah gotta go, got things pressing.
it didn’t bother me much–two whole days passed
and it still didn’t say much, just a little nagging,
maybe some ice, I thought, but forgot that night.

second morning dawned with a new crew.
my foot, no my ankle, I mean, to my mind,
well it was ME and I couldn’t walk on it,
I mean me couldn’t walk,
pain was foremost, no postponing,
and swollen it was, I was, am.

ice and pills are the answer, and something else. oh yes, time; why couldn’t it be pills and ice only,
I wonder; I don’t have time for this,
things are pressing, after all,
and, and, how long for this, for me, to mend?
and what if it, I mean me, does not?

michael harris Michael Harris