Freight

It’s not the twilight
of memory
that worries me

or the foot speed
that prat-falls
at a canter

nor the Heave Ho
effort for so paltry
a pulmonary response

It’s that the degradation
isn’t singular

Damnit.

It’s shared

She can’t lie. I’d
testify.

But her eyes break faith.

I am the burden.

Her true
and well
loved
encumbrance.


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