By Phil Flott
I pivoted on the balls of my feet,
to not fall off to the left or the right
but to sit me down on the flat part
of the roof.
My balancing muscle popped,
I fell atop a mound of soft dirt.
The torn tendon sucked blood to itself
then quickly dispersed it,
though I did not realize that.
I went to lunch, as if the sun in the sky
meant a blessing on my body
and not shining forth my injury.
Night descended; fever arrived.
Immobility was my way to love myself.
Fasting from supper felt like fullness.
I loved my leucocytes.
The doctor made blood seep out
in skank serum,
pulled my tendons back to overlap,
sutured the ripped parts together.
My healthy heart aided my healing.
Cortex contributed its part.
I ate meals to wholeness,
happy to receive back
my healed four-in-one quad.
Phil Flott is a retired carpenter. He has had poems in Passager, Sangam, Raven’s Perch, Mulberry Literary, and others.