Before I Could Commit to the Floor

It woke before I did, the way it does—

a low specific grinding, nothing sharp.

The announcement of itself. Because

that's what it does now. The dark

of the room. Six a.m. I reached

and pressed the cap. The slight

give. I calculated, beseeched

the day to hold. The flight

of stairs. The dip in the pavement.

The commute's particular asks.

I sat there running the assessment

half-asleep, the tasks

of the day against the knee's

current disposition. Cold

floor. I pressed again. The tease

of the give, the hold

still there. I stood. It held—

just. The room still dark.

The body, compelled

the way it is. The arc

of the commute already

in my legs before I left.

The stairs. The steady

grinding. The small theft

of the minute I sat there

deciding whether the day was possible.

It was. I took the stairs.

The answer: negotiable.