Thursday, 12 September 2013



Falling to my right,
Knowing the hard, tiled floor
Would abuse, then bruise
Elbow, hip, or knee, 
I reached. Nay, I clawed at the trajectory of the ball
But didn't quite
Time the dive right
And the yellow missile,
To my wide-eyed indignation
Caused an unexpected dislocation
Of the smallest digit,
Promoting pain, which soared
To unabashed agony
And ignominy;
The finger, angled at maybe eighty degrees askew,
Stubbornly refused to return to whence it grew,
So I played on, also stubbornly,
Gallantly? Nay, foolishly...

The hinged, shabby, Florentine shutter I noticed,
Brought back a memory to disappoint;
I recalled that agonising caltrop finger:
Hinged like that at the joint...

The shutter...

Recently acquired World War One caltrop, used to bring down horses...

The shutter in Florence reminded me of dislocating my little finger in a five-a-side game at the old Aston Villa Leisure Centre.
I saved the shot but carried on with a strangely angled digit.
The skipper replaced it for me after the game...
Two weeks later, I dislocated a thumb.
That clicked back into place as I clutched my steering wheel, en route to a local hospital...

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