Some Days

There is this weight
that hangs around my fingers
when they rest.
Pulls them down
to the table
or the couch
sometimes the floor.
Ties them to the ground
so that the rest of me
has to compensate.

I find myself in precarious positions
bent down kneeling
pushing up
with the balls of my feet
hoping that something I do
will lose me.

And some days that’s all right.
And some days that sort of thing can work.
And those days are nice.
And those day are good.

But most days
I’m some slowly weathering copper statue
lime green rust runs
up my fingers
over my hands
and through my arms
like thick spider webs
or worse
(if you haven’t yet imagined those spiders)
Roots so hard and fast that not even my metal body
can wield the strength necessary
to pull away
break free
and reclaim
my lofty ambitions.


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