The Scale Shifts

The mahogany dresser has a stubborn weight,

a density that he used to own.

But he’s just gripping the edge like bait,

while I’m the one with the marrow and bone.

He couldn't even get the pickles out,

the lid stayed tight against his grip.

He turned away with a quiet doubt,

letting his pride and the moment slip.

His skin is loose like a borrowed coat,

hung on a frame that’s starting to thin.

I feel a hard, hot lump in my throat

watching the person I was begin to win.