I am your knee.
You didn’t listen much to me.
In fact, if you had to spot me in a line up of knees,
I doubt you’d recognise me as your own.
(That is not likely to happen again,
I have done my time and will
not be partaking in a life of crime
for the forseeable future).
You picked scabs off me when you were young.
You knelt on me on dusty cushions
To pray haphazardly.
Or on floors strange and alien
Contorted by boys to whom you had not been formally introduced.
You once took me on a unicycle.
It was an anticlimax, in my opinion.
A traffic light engineer once told you I was knobbly.
You chose to think he was flirting.
He most certainly was not. It was merely an observation.
You embarrassed me countless times with skirts too short,
And countless prepositions at the end of sentences,
That were too tedious to contemplate.
Your anecdotes, quite frankly, are paltry,
And your cooking is beyond bland.
The preponderance of peas is depressing.
A bit of variety, they say, is the spice of life.
You dressed me in some distinctly dubious trousers in the 90s.
Let us be quite clear about it,
they were not retro, they were unfortunate.
You neglected me, when it came to moisturisation
Don’t expect me to keep quiet about it now.
After all you put me through.
If you can look me in the knee and tell me that I’m wrong,
Then do it.
But you know I’m right.
I glad we had this heart to knee.
I’ve had it in knee for a long time to tell you all of this,
But I know you don’t respond well to criticism.
I hope you realise your knee is in the right place,
I’m not saying this to be unkind.
I just want to help you.
I won’t take it to knee if you
Choose to take offence.
After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.
I always pictured this moment in your mind’s knee.
Or was it your knee’s knee?
Do you know?
Do you even know whether I am your left knee,
Or your right?
We don’t see knee to knee,
But to you, we’re just the same.