Center of Mass

The rug is ruined where the dresser sat.

Four deep squares of matted wool

where the wood has made its point.

I try to stand, but the springs are flat;

my knees give out a sudden pull,

a grinding ache in every joint.

The old man by the mailbox waits.

He’s leaning hard into the air

as if the wind could push him through.

The sidewalk has its heavy gates;

he’s checking if the ground is there

and if it’s holding for him too.