The Hinge

I leaned on the table to look at the bills

and felt a sharp bloom of an ache in the bone.

It’s the kind of small damage that gradually fills

the space in a body that’s living alone.

The skin there is dry, ashy and thin,

mapped out in wrinkles that don't ever smooth.

It’s where the weathering starts to begin,

a hinge that has lost its desire to soothe.

I move like my grandfather did in the fall,

with a caution I used to find funny and strange.

It isn't a tragedy, not one at all—

just a joint that is keeping the record of change.