The Curve, Or, What I Carry

A quick pass,

storefront glass,

and there it was.

My own self,

a strange silhouette.

Shoulders, yes, always this way,

up to my ears, like they’re trying to hide.

And that neck, reaching,

like a starved crane

or some bony, startled bird.

Then the ache –

just a twinge, no, a dull spike

between the blades,

right there, where I always forget it lives.

It tightens.

I tried to straighten, for a beat,

just for that reflection,

but it felt wrong,

almost a lie.

So I just kept walking.

The curve, still there,

under the coat.