Atlas

The chiropractor's fingers dig into tight flesh,
her calm voice probes, "Couldn't you carry less?'
"If I let go for a moment, the sky will fall in.'
"Can't you see any way out?' With gritted teeth:
"I've got to concentrate, hold everything together!'
"Same time next week?' She opens her appointment book.
It contains the names of many people called Atlas.
"Wish I could shift my cares to you for a while,' I say,
putting on the charm. The bill slides towards me:
"Forty dollars — I'll unburden you of that much.'
All told, a costly business in a life without reward.
I only know I'm alive because my shoulders hurt!
Most likely, my fate is to become a kind of mountain —
vastly insensible, with a permanent list — you see them
in boardrooms: old mountains with glinting pince-nez,
fixed agendas, and huge heaps of metal in the bank.
Oh, the more I petrify, the more I disintegrate!—
Won't someone out there save me? All I've got here
is a woman with bony, questioning fingers:
"Ever tried yogic breathing?' Yogic breathing! Help!
World, if I have a breakdown, it'll be your fault!