New, original
pains
keep creeping in
like unexpected guests
that insist
on overstaying
their welcome.

They become
permanent tenants
at a temporary
hotel:
having nowhere else
to go, no doors to let hem
out, there's nothing
you can do
but scream
at them
when you notice
their heavy feet
dragging across
your floor.

But most times,
you don't. They'r nothing but
background noise, like falling, accelerated,
into a whole
of yourself:
if the change is slow
enough,
there isn't enough
gravity
to be felt.

Life is but a
compendium
of this,
of these
small changes of
momentum:
lighting a cigarette,
or watching the rolling paper float down
to the floor,
wind from your
action
blowing it away
in trying
to catch it.