Descent

Mr. Henderson is leaning hard

against the handle of the plastic bin.

The wheels are choked with mud,

spinning against the wet asphalt.

He is sinking into the day.

I can see the divots in the grass

where his boots pressed down,

dark green holes filling with rain.

Everything is trying to get lower.

The porch steps, the sagging gate,

the way his shoulders have become

a place for the world to rest.