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.
