Window Slump

The store window, a mirror that lies

only a little.

Fluorescent glare, no soft disguise,

and there I am, brittle.

Slumped shoulders, a forward curve,

my neck a question mark.

The jacket hangs wrong, it doesn't serve

to hide the day's dark

weight. I see it now, the drag,

the way I carry it all.

Each little worry, like a heavy bag,

making my spine fall.

An ache between the blades.

Just standing here, like this.

What good are these parades

of quiet emptiness?