The Pop

I reached for the mug with the chip in the rim.

The coffee was waiting, the kitchen was dim.

I stretched out my arm for the porcelain white

and felt the full weight of the previous night.

My spine made a sound like a dry cedar bough,

a series of clicks I can't quite allow.

It’s a language of hinges that need to be greased,

a body that wants to be finally released.

The steam hits my face as I stand by the sink.

I’m older than yesterday, I’d like to think.