Posture

The microwave timer is the only light in here.

In the reflection of the black glass,

I am a question mark made of meat and bone.

The shift was ten hours of saying 'thank you'

while my lower back tried to quit.

I’m slumped so far into the cushion

that I can feel the springs counting my ribs.

A single sock is hanging off the coffee table,

white and tired, just like the rest of me.

Nobody is here to tell me to sit up straight,

so I just let the gravity win.