Knees

This poem is dedicated to those of us

who remember Woodstock better than

Outlander’s plot two days ago.

Are knees an imperfection of design,

like George Burns in Oh God!

admitted he made the pit

too big for avocados?

***

Or perhaps they are a benevolent

blessing in disguise.

***

Maybe they keep me from doing

what my stupidity would

otherwise scream is still possible.

***

So, thank you, knees.

Even though you’re a pain,

you may know more than

I give you credit for.