Dry Rot

I reached for the Bic under the desk

and my spine gave up the ghost.

A sound like a bag of frozen peas

hitting the linoleum—

crunching, wet, and final.

The radiator chose that second

to clank and hiss,

a metal laugh at my hinges.

I stayed down there for a minute,

eye-level with the gray lint bunnies

clinging to the feet of my chair.

It turns out I’m made of old lumber.

It turns out the warranty

expired while I was sleeping.