Strain

The afternoon sun boils offset to an apex,

panting common curses while shambling

towards a dirty skyline.

We've grabbed two ends of something deceptively heavy.

I've been soaked in sweat or shivering,

and both have caused my grip to slip on occasion.

The evening spits melting soot or rough slurs,

depending on the angle and its attitude. 

I lean towards the latter, as calluses blister

and I fantasize about air conditioned interiors.

We hold this situation between us,

shifting weight, foot to foot.

I should be holding you,

instead of us holding this thing

together.

It creates space where none is needed.

It keeps our hands from touching.