Structural Integrity

The neighbor’s sofa was a dead weight,

a velvet-covered brick we hauled

up eighty steps until the hour was late

and my hamstrings finally stalled.

He offered a glass and a place to sit

but I waved him off with a lie.

I didn't want him to see the bit

where the breath starts to rattle and die.

My palms are a map of purple-red lines

where the metal frame bit into the meat.

A man is just a series of signs

that he’s still standing on his feet.