Sit A While

Hours nibble at a low back strain. Tenuous strings were tugged lifting water bottles. You wonder how fragile you are, how vulnerable to those red tides that bend your iron like plasticine, turn you into a crooked question mark. Sit a while old man, sip tasteless water from a warm plastic bottle, imagine racing upwards leaping from mountain top to mountain top, get high on being low. You've earned every dull ache, time to ruefully admit that there never has been such a thing as a 'dull' ache.