The older I get the more the bones complain

it rattles me when I rattle them


early this morning going through my wardrobe

I passed a cursory glance over a row of ill-fitting blouses

from an era before cake


this resulted in me swiftly refocusing

on a set of boney fingers

dangling limp and lifeless from the clothes rail

then another set, then another


and skulls grinning at me, all teeth and jawbones

and eye pits all fixed directly on mine

-like post-it notes for those of a morbid inclination


I hear them rattling on-

“Hey, you remember us? That time we hung out together, and you…”

“Do you recall that we used to…”

“I can’t believe you did…”


They can’t walk themselves to the grave

I’m going to have to carry them some day.

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