Alleyway Work

The weeds had taken the brickwork behind the garage,

thick, woody stalks that didn't want to let go of the grit.

I spent the morning pulling until my palms went raw,

feeling the hinge of my hips find its old, forgotten slot.

There is a specific, honest ache in the small of the back

that comes from hauling gravel in a rusted plastic pail.

It’s better than the phantom weight of sitting still,

the way the mind rots when the limbs start to fail.

By noon, my grey shirt was heavy and dark at the neck,

and as the fabric dried, the salt mapped out the heat.

I could feel the air hitting the back of my throat,

a clean, sharp inventory of every muscle in the street.