Philip Deal
Flat feet repaired by
pediatric shoes,
bowed legs straightened by
a heavy metal brace,
buck teeth reshaped by wire.
Where would I be without medicine? I ask my wife.
Single, she says.
One piece of broken heel, removed,
two fingers, snapped in games, surgically realigned.
A double hernia, held in place by gauze,
glasses for reading,
prescription cream to make my skin stop itching.
Six sets of stitches
in my head,
one daily pill for stomach acid,
another for a thyroid glitch
that runs in the family.
Four steroid injections
for joints that won’t unbend,
ibuprofen every time I decide to be a runner again.
Where would I be if I had been born 200 years ago?
Dead, my wife says.
I laugh, and throw out my back.