My bones are slightly rusty,
Like the Tin Man on day two of his long wait.
Every day starts with a creaking rise from the bed.
Muscles flex and bones groan.
Gradually, my own oils flow to fill the worn gaps.
The body works,
The mind forgets,
(intentional forgetting, I’m sure)
I move down the hill of the day until,
At the bottom,
I fall back into my waiting bed
To accrete a new layer of rust.