You tumbled off a roof. 
Your ankle is an an anchor with no mooring.
I was tossed off a horse.
My shoulder is an alarm clock with an unceasing ring.

We meet by the Gaylord,
a chest-high box
filled with books to be shredded,
the detritus of our trade.

You hold a copy of The Farming of the Bones
And I hold a copy of Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters.
To toss or not to toss?
This is a question that weighs you down
and makes my ears ring. 

With age comes pain.  And with pain comes wisdom.
we swap copies
You take the Salinger 
I take the Danticat,
and we resume salvaging.

Next: 9. 1/9/23: Respite