The Slump

The checkbook is open, the numbers are wrong,

I’ve been sitting in this kitchen for far too long.

My lower back is a knot of old wire,

and the microwave screen shows a shape I admire

less than I should. My shoulders are rolled,

like a man in a coat who’s afraid of the cold.

I see my father in the curve of the glass,

the way he’d let the whole afternoon pass

with his chin on his chest and his neck bone out,

the C7 ridge like a stone in a spout.

I’m bracing for something that hasn't hit yet,

a body that’s heavy with things I forget.