The box is too heavy for three flights of stairs

The box is too heavy for three flights of stairs.

I stop at the landing to find my own pulse,

feeling the weight of the years and the cares

and the body that turns into someone else.

The October air has a tooth and a blade

that bites at the back of my throat as I gasp.

I’m listening to the progress I’ve made

by the way my own breathing is starting to rasp.

My coat rustles loud in the quiet of the hall,

a rhythmic scraping against the dry wall.

I’m just a machine that is liable to stall,

waiting for the oxygen to answer the call.