Diagnoses

Hobbling dramatically, hope the signs
say clearly – see, it’s his right foot, how
he favours it. Pain a chaste bump away
from fragile bones complaining silently.

No-one sees tape placed with surgical
skill supporting broken toes. No, they
see a gaunt-faced male’s soulful limping,
read diagnoses from their own fiction.

So how’s th’ gout mate? is asked in
voices thick with mock concern;
‘n hey mate, whassa matter?
Yer lost yer walkin’ stick?
© 8 March 2008, I. D. Carswell