Low Impact

The shift was a marathon of standing still,

I’ve got salt on my skin and a lack of will.

The microwave is humming a B-flat note,

and a song comes on that I used to quote.

My knees give a crack like a dry old branch,

as I start a kitchen-floor avalanche.

It’s a clumsy shuffle, a heavy-boot sway,

shaking off the dirt of a fourteen-hour day.

The fridge light is casting a yellowed glare,

on the chipped-up tiles and the empty chair.

I’m out of rhythm and I’m out of breath,

moving like I’m finally scaring off death.