What the Handle Knows

The shovel has been leaning against the side of the house

for two days. I haven't put it away.

The handle is worn smooth on one side

from my grip. The blade has rust starting

where I scraped it. My back still hurts.

I look at it and know exactly what it cost me.

Not in money. In the small aches

that come back when I sit down,

that wake me up at night.

The curve of the handle,

darkened by sweat and time.

The specific angle it's leaning at,

like it's waiting for someone to pick it up again.

But I won't. Not today.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.

The rust will spread.

The handle will dry out.

The tool will become less useful,

or it will become something else.

A marker of what I did.

I look at it from the window

and don't feel anything in particular.

Just the ache.

Just the fact that it's there.