The clock says twelve and I am finally still

The clock says twelve and I am finally still,

a stack of brittle plates held up by grit.

I reach to drink my fill

and hear the middle of me start to quit.

A dry pop echoes in the quiet room,

the sound of something shifting in the frame.

I feel the heavy, radiating bloom

of heat that doesn't have a proper name.

It pulses through the waistband of my gear,

a dull and steady throb against the sheet.

I’ve traded thirty years

for the privilege of standing on my feet.