Maintenance (a poem)

Wednesday, January 7, 2026

My family.
My mans.
My walking.

My puppy staring like what
and the track drops—
Johnny’s P-Caddy,
Butcher Benny,
that Philly grain in the air.

Love your brother.
We keep.

Feet shuffling—
and I gotta believe
this pathetic motion,
as it is,
still counts as meaning.

A sun dog hangs
in the warm slice of winter,
thirty-five degrees,
light slipping through the shades,
making him lazy,
pulling a smile loose.

The telly warms.
Something in me tilts sideways—
nostalgia, maybe,
or the function of love
operating beyond its obvious protocols.

Step.
Step.

Shades drawn now.
Judah closed
’cause Sasha was barking.

Plates everywhere—
too many.
I used to spin six, seven at once
like it was nothing,
muscle memory, no thought.

Now I can’t pass the test sober.
You feel me.

For clarity—
I am a broken-old man,
still walking,
still keeping time,
still letting the light
touch me
where it can.