Rolled over slow in the quiet bed

Rolled over, slow, in the quiet bed.

And then, the internal orchestra.

First, a gravelly crack above my head,

my neck, protesting, a low blur.

Then spine, a series of small, dry pops.

Like pebbles shifting in a riverbed.

Each one distinct, a tiny stop,

before the next, softly said.

My shoulder, a deeper, grinding sound.

It’s not pain, exactly, just a fact.

The body, arguing with the ground.

Every joint, a fragile pact.

And I lie there, listening to the tune,

of things un-oiled, stiff with sleep.

Waiting for the day to bloom.

While secret sounds, their vigil keep.