My aging world view is trying to break in.
My disconnect is trying to break in.

Ember on my sternum
stinging. Hesitating before
going out or burning through
like a drill to my heart. Or maybe
like a pyre consuming all with 
a quickness.

My bank balance is trying to break in.
My bills are trying to break in.

Back of the head stiff from
vigilance. At the join between
the head and neck, pain
like a nut coming off a rusted bolt.
A screech inside me like that of
a caged raptor.

My Blood sugar, trying to break in.
My blood pressure, trying to break in.

My feet? A fire that sometimes
howls and cracks, sometimes smolders;
then, there are those neuropathic moments
when a dry floor feels like it is swimming 
with dirty water and I lift them and go mad
to find them dry and feel them then reigniting.

My lonely off days, trying to break in.
My anxious on days, trying to break in.

Fuzzy on details from morning to night
like a blanket’s been thrown over me —
supposed to be for comfort, maybe, 
or like what they put on a corpse at a crime scene,
but I’m not dead yet. Or perhaps I am.
Or maybe it’s a matter of time.

My mania, trying to break in.
My depression, trying to break in.

Some will tell you that such Burglars come
to steal spoons. I’ve got not one spoon left.
No,

they’re here for something else.