The women sit amongst one another,
speaking of hands and plans,
whilst I myself remain anchored to a chair,
using my own to tug on what remains of my thinning hair.
This is why I lick the back of my teeth
and this is why I cannot speak.

I am above wondering
what a life contains:
the moments of swallowed words,
lost dreams and particles of dust,
gutted & compacted
lightly calicified in my spine.
My mind, captive since that time
when my flesh was still peachlike
& ******.
How it flies forth,
How I lie back.

The charade progresses,
I swallow.
Still hollow, with the hallows of being.
Those hands the women revere,
dizzy my head.