The Hook

The microwave screen is a square of black glass.

I watch my own shape as the slow minutes pass.

My chin is pushed down and my chest is caved in,

like I’m trying to hide underneath my own skin.

The bone at my neck is a knob, hard and white.

It pushes against the thin shirt, strained and tight.

My spine is a question I can’t seem to ask,

bent under the weight of an invisible task.

My lower back burns with a dull, steady heat.

I haven't stood up or moved from this seat.

I’m curved like a staple, I’m twisted and stuck,

waiting for some kind of change in my luck.