Load Bearing

We didn't say hello in the hall for a year,

but today he needed a spare set of back.

The fridge is a dead, white weight

cold enough to make the knuckles crack.

Three flights of stairs in a heavy hush,

gritting our teeth against the joint-fire.

When we set it down, my palms are mapped

in a red corduroy, a strange attire

of the price we pay for being built

to carry the things that won't speak.