Morning Cracks

Waking, a slow, stiff thing.

I rolled,

a small, caught groan.

Then stretched, a slow reach,

for the pale ceiling, alone.

And my back gave out its sound.

Not a crack, no,

more like a stack of small, dry bones,

or twigs snapping on the ground.

Click, click. A sound like a worn-out lock,

or the hinge of a rusty box.

In the weak light, dust motes

danced, while the old clock

kept its slow, tired tocks.

My own body,

a stranger,

full of old wood, and thin, small shocks.