Anymore, it's the tiny bonfires
that light up my shoulders,
dance a bit on the muscle
I crushed moving that time.
Alone, as if it lent an air
of dignity to surviving,
not living, not dying,
but scratching a trail
through mud and cement,
a bag of tricks pulled along
side like some lunatic magician
might carry his rabbit's foot
as proof that once
it came from his very hat;
a testimony to his magic,
to what he was,
or rather what they thought
he might be one day,
if he stayed behind,
or rather ahead,
of his magic.