The Slight Bend

Woke up stiff. A dull ache, low,

a stubborn knot where the day begins.

Caught my reflection, how I go

through the world, hunching. The way it spins

me forward, a permanent curve, a question mark.

My bony ridge, a ladder against my shirt,

a fragile line. Each step, a small, hard spark

shooting up, a reminder of the dirt

I'm made of. This column, stacked and slow,

carrying the weight. Sometimes, I stand straight,

trying to lengthen, to make it glow.

But the slight bend always wins, always waits.

It's not just posture. It's the way I carry it all.

This delicate, aching wall.