How to be patient when you’re weak at the knees
Poet and artist Frieda Hughes finds inspiration in her injured leg – and the eclectic company of the hospital waiting room
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.