My mother told me I'm so much more serious 
  Than I used to be. She said it's some kind of sad. 

  Waking up takes longer than it used to before 
  My body betrayed itself.
  Now my mornings settle in slowly, my bruised bones 
  Waiting for their cells to to get used to the poison,
  My black and bitter coffee cup warming too-smooth knuckles
  That are never quite hot enough, no 
  Matter how burnt my angry, red tongue. 

  My new-found gravity, I wonder, did it come naturally
  With seeing and feeling too much around me too deeply:
  A product of growing?
  Or did it come more darkly, borne in my blood
  A piece of my chronic disease, unwanted, settling 
  Deep between my toes, above my knees?

  Or was it both? If it's time that my own system did steal,
  It quickly accounts for the new rending that I feel.
  My breakfasts are topped off with too-ripe tears,
  My baseball mitt neglected, catching only frozen fears-
  My wheels rolled twenty to sixty too Goddamn fast,
  And the thick souls of my shoes assure me that it'll last.