Poem: Hobbles

A poem about evolution’s weak points. And the world

Our ankles are weak.
A cruel trick of evolution.
We stand and walk and sprint.

We only think of the problem
that was always waiting to happen
when there’s a problem; when

it actually happens. We expect
it all to keep going until it can’t.
Whether ankle, or uncle,

or computer operating system;
all of them meant to work
and when they don’t, it’s the fault

of anyone else. Or anything else.
Not the cruel tricks of evolution
and baked-in obsolescence;

not the way of a world that doesn’t
have our backs. And nor should it
for the way it’s been treated.