How to be patient when you’re weak at the knees

In the waiting room we are eclectic; elasticated, draw-stringed,

And smartly suited. An aged man wheels his frame

To the power-button doors and waits for his wife to press for exit,

Joking about his own angles. He clings to being upright

With both hands as if welded. The thick bronzed ponytail

Of the woman with immaculate makeup and perhaps a lower facelift,

Rests upon the collar of her perfectly camel-beige jacket,

And her flat black patent leather pumps at the end of slim,

Tartan-clad calves, shine with the promise of practical service,

Each sporting a heavy gilt double emblem from the alphabet.

A young man, built like a bullock, enters with purpose,

His knees knocking as he slides each foot forward, listing slightly

To his right. His T-shirt reads: “Sons of Aspirin, Arthritic Chapter”.

The crash-helmeted motorbike-riding skeleton beneath the words

Grins at me in recognition, as he does. I have parked mine

Outside my appointment for a torn meniscus membrane

That cannot contain the pain of sitting, standing, lying down

Or usefully existing. The consultant steps out, calls my name,

And I stand to walk, the invisible machete still stuck firmly

In the back of my left knee.