The streetlights hummed to life at six

The streetlights hummed to life at six,

casting a yellow wash on the hardware store glass.

I saw a man in the pane, a collection of tricks,

waiting for the winter chill to pass.

He wasn't standing tall or looking ahead;

his neck was a hook, a heavy, curved line.

A question mark made of muscle and dread,

the slow, sagging failure of the spine.

His shoulders were pulled to his ears,

guarding the throat from a blow that never lands.

I realized I’ve been living this way for years,

with tight chest and hollow, waiting hands.

I tried to pull the blades back, to stand straight,

but the glass held the shape of the slump.

It’s hard to unlearn the carry and the weight

and the way the spirit grows a hump.