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On Being a System There is a man who runs at forty RPMs who built himself in four and counts his tank by thirds— repeating, of course. He holds the money and the shopping and the pressure on the back that helps her breathe and the old verdict from ten years ago and the loneliness that is partially by choice. He notices which side settles first. He marks the time the muscle relaxant was taken. He says I love you when that is the only answer. Somewhere in the liminal— morning crossing into day, day surrendering to night— a nerve on the left side quietly says you can put it down now. He notices. He doesn’t, yet. But he notices.