Carrying the Year

I saw him by the city bus

with his spine bent like a bow.

I remember that heavy, nylon fuss,

and having nowhere else to go.

My own bag hits the kitchen floor

with a thud that shakes the shelf.

I don't want to carry it anymore,

I can barely carry myself.

The straps leave rivers in my skin,

deep red valleys of work and dread.

Where does the exhaustion begin?

It’s already inside my head.