The Weight He Carries

He sits like gravity chose him—

coat hanging low, ribs folded in.

The coffee cup slips, slow, reluctant,

a reluctant thud into worn tile.

His shoulder sags with a tired ache,

a coat pulled tight, a man compressed.

Air thick like the damp in the subway,

every breath a small surrender.

No rescue in the clink and spill,

just pull—down, down, a slow descent.

Gravity isn't laws on paper,

it's the quiet of being bent.