Shoulders. A Poem.

They talk about chips and weight and coldness.
On my shoulders rests nothing,
it’s the tense sinews and dehydrated fibers
in them radiating down to the blades like a bread line
from the thirties, tattered and wrung by despair.

I suppose they would better slump than lay
like a plank above the chambered muscle,
stiff, stubborn, automatic, like a blink.
Should I pay attention, I will them to bow down.
They give momentary prayers to pacify.

Then back up and perpendicular they set like a beam.
It is their fall-back position, default mode,
and I ignore their stance at attention,
I refuse to return their salute.
I carry on

until an arm rests atop my neck and shoulders
and the pressure, the presence reminds me
although I experience loneliness, I am not alone.
“Leave me alone” as I squirm out from underneath,
as if that were possible.


  1. That is so true

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