Tattered like old rags

I’m tired before it begins:

unravelled from years

of worry and work.

Gravity crushes the light

into the room’s corners.

I move, a fragile ghost,

with slow thick steps.

Once again, I’m pushed

back into the grey chair

to stare out the window

at nothing in particular.

I know what to do,

but the thought wears me.

(April 5, 2022)