The Ebb

I don’t have to reach up anymore.

I look at the top of his head,

the pink scalp showing through the gray

like a secret he’s trying to keep.

He asks me to grab the box of lights.

The wool of his sweater is a loose sack,

his shoulders having pulled inward

as if the air is becoming too heavy to hold.

He’s cinched his trousers tight

with a new hole gouged in the leather.

The edge of the belt is raw and jagged,

cut by a man who is tired of shrinking.