Nagging with every step,
throwing tantrums at each turn,
my knee is crying out,
mourning its chance leap towards triumph.

So now I shoulder the weight,
the heft of dusty plaques and tarnished gold.

The pressure is enough to crush me,
enough to fold my paper form
into an origami crane:
a novelty and nothing more.

At first glance I pique the interest,
like a grandparent’s attic, you believe
I hide treasured items,
war medals and the like
with soot-covered stories to match.

But really I am only good for storage,
the housing of Boardwalk knick knacks.

Eventually you tire,
bored of the parlor tricks
and birthday clown magic.

It’s at this point they come,
the expectant meteors
sent by your disappointed world.

Cratering the surface
of my freeze-dried skin
they depress me,
and lower my posture
to a fetalled position.

Yet I will rise again
to pick up my pockmarked self
and return to my role
as the surrogate Atlas.