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beyond the flex
the corners hold the dirt in a fierce grasp, pulling old linoleum from foot traffic and swallowing it like spring runoff in the gumbos.
his feet scrape and shuffle, and the corners renew their grasp his weight staples the floor covering for a moment, as he totters, then sways collapsing in a mire of old sheets and dead skin.
the floor continues its escape and he lies in wait, knowing that tomorrow the stairs will await his descent and the couch will murmur its consent and the bank calendars (old friends) will listen with him to the weather report
the flow will continue slowly escaping beneath his feet cascading into inevitability, leaving the skeletons of remorse like dust bunnies beneath his bed frame. But for five seconds, as he stands, noble, victorious...
the past pauses its retreat waiting only for the cloud of his form to fall which it does in a cloud of his own spit and skin so that he might sleep and awake and descend to find that the runoff is gone and the remembering is over and the forgetting may begin.
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