Lumbar

When did he grow so old?
When did he admit there are places he’ll never go?
Burnt holes in the paper maps
Cratered space saving weight 
Every gram helps his craning back

Woke up today
As playdough caked in shapes
Best he can remember
From the kinder kind of mirrors
They don’t make anymore

The totems shift with each night
The vertebrate spin in the wind as they clang and chime
Singing the day’s refrain
Whispering all kinds of shit
In the ancient language
Of lumbar pain

My spine’s a fishing pole
My line is caught
On some sunken piece of brickwork
Not that swimming silver sword
That I was born for
Maybe I wasn’t born for anything at all
And as the current drifts
Softly links my arm and pulls me with it
Gently like a friend in turmoil
Panicking in the street
Guiding me from phantoms that only I can see

But they have me.