Stacking the Hours

The radiator clicked off with a final metallic pop.

The room is cooling down to the color of slate.

I finally let the heavy, work-day mask drop

and feel the full, sagging pull of my weight.

I reached for the doorknob, cold brass in my hand,

and my vertebrae shifted like beads on a wire.

Twelve hours of trying to stay upright and stand

has turned every muscle to damp, heavy mire.

It’s a slow sort of unravelling, bone by bone.

I’m leaning my forehead against the cool wood.

Just a stack of old habits and grit left alone,

not doing as well as I said that I would.