It’s not just the ozone that knows depletion,
in every crevice of this body, I know it —
Indeed I know down to the weave of my bones
the pressure from outside forces that weaken
and would prevent my connection with others.
It makes every journey from home unending,
and the return like that of a frail ghost
to rooms that hold only dust and history,
albeit the once novel
laughter and pitter-patter of babes.
I daily maintain a roof overhead, and
win that half the battle 8 hours at a time:
minute after minute smeared with an ointment
more potent than any wax, or yellow sunshine.
This grind preserves for my loves a home.
May they remain safe, happy and fully able
to go as they must from knowing into understanding
and perhaps delight in memories of that envelope, for
then the peachy woman in pictures whom they make proud
will settle down in the familiar weave of her bones,
unafraid to be wholly ground to powder, and further
scattered by the wind.