Our Lady of Decreasing Altitude

I am crushed,
hardened,
ten thousand years old.

I am dirt under traffic cones
miles and miles of protruding bones.
sixty days of caricatures
alone in a skin.

I am glass hands on moldy rivets
melting,
fizzing,
light to helpless trails.

I am dizzy
cornered
well-spoken and well-maligned.
curable if caught on time.

I am tired of the big finish.
spoonbenders beware!
ripped up a tattered sentiment
and lost from keeping score.

****

I wrote this on a bus quite some time ago and just found it in the bottom of my backpack while not being able to sleep and looking for my cell phone charger. I especially like the bit about spoonbenders.