Good Bones

These bruises on my wrists are from the effort

Monumental, like what I made for you

Or of you, which may be more accurate

To move and lift, just me alone

It was really hard, you know

And fairly awkward in more ways than one

To haul such a thing into my living room

After taking so much time to assemble

A piece so bright and intricate

Freshly bleached and smooth to touch

Finally, somewhere to rest my feet

While I remember you, of course

Although, it is rather uncomfortable…

Perhaps I should have saved some flesh

With which I could cushion my poor ankles

Which are now propped up and aching,

On the unforgiving surface of my new coffee table.