I can steer my mind from the pain in my heels
with the thought of osteoblasts,
Doozer cells who remodel
my bone from calcaneus through tibia
thanks to the lash of gravity
against the substrate of concrete.
We are all lined up like vertebrae
in a queue from door through courtyard,
broken at the stairs to resume where I stand,
minutes into the second hour,
wishing I had another drink or hadn’t had the first.
But I’ll imagine I’m stronger thanks to the wait,
as -blasts and -cytes shore up my bone
the way engineers brace a bridge
before it crumbles, or the way my fingers while in line
lift Goo in stages from the ground to the pipe,
before I get too old
to stand in the line at the foot of the stairs.