People are anchors.
How many times must the bottom be dragged?
Or simple promises mangled into a tangled chain.
My guess is you’ll never know.
Some choose to remember to forget.
A quiet spot in the corner is best.
To watch, to rest.
To wait them out.
As they wear out the carpet.
And the hardwood below.
Dragging themselves behind themselves.
And the sofa and dining table and the grandfather clock.
Bric-a-brac and tick-tock.
In their wake.
Others choose a different course.
And retreat to the basement.
By hand, by hook, or by crook.
Today it ends.
And the ocean floor creaks, seeps.
Overhead.