Poetry: Well, You’re Dead by Robert L. Penick

Well, You’re Dead and I’m holding my own,taking on water, mainlyin my feet and ankles,filling up like a rain gaugeor the Edmund Fitzgerald.Time hangs burdens on us:weight, fatigue, regretthe most noticeable.They bind our hands andplant our feet to the soil,to a moment thatno longer existson this twisting Earth.A mediocre boxer,I keep moving, clockwise,around this ring,shoulders […]