This old neck of mine

that has held my head for many years

no longer allows me to see

the center of the sky, while standing.


Its swiveling power has decreased.


As I walk along in various places

I try to keep my eyes above the horizon

while I feel my neck protesting

and encouraging me to bend

to search the ground before me.


In the mornings I succeed

and hold my head up high

but as the days unfold

I begin to yield to my neck’s protests.


By evening I have nothing left

to help me hold my head up high

and I become a bent man —

or, at least, a bending man.


After a good night’s sleep

the battle is waged again

as I  strive to hold my head up high

knowing that when night is nigh

I will have again succumbed.


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