Welcome. 

I wait coiled in my wooden desk chair

like a chestnut or a wad of violet gum

stuck in the crux of a bathroom stall door.

My spine has always curved inwards.

concave, convex, influx, inflex of my arches

my trajectory, cove, coin-crawling crinkle

my hunched silhouette by a desk lamp is

like the cupped hands of an ice cream scoop

like after-rain mud pools

like Dixie cups full of fruit loops

like the hesitant smile of a banana

or the smirk of a spoon's neck.

I feel the careful curvature of

each skyline tiptoe cautiously on my vertebrata--

I'll patiently roll back my shoulders

like cookie dough or sun-faded sleep bags

lazy-eyed like a new moon.

I'll feel like a hex sign-haloed covered bridge

and a welcome mat with the black bristles

or a place for God to wipe his bare feet

on my forehead.