Slipknots and windpipes

 
The shipping lane is sand-banked  
a starched collar feels sharp  
against a Captains weathered skin  
stepping out into traffic.  

I should be double bagged,  
still I tear under the weight  
spilling each day at the front door,  
on my knees for apples and tin cans.  
 
The letters slide from the page,  
perhaps words hide away  
afraid of what others would read  
I could write a murder  
to bring them back.  
 
My tap dance routine  
is well rehearsed, no mistakes  
from these frail chair legs,  
a top hat above the tales.  
 
The plasters soft and falls away,  
an epitaph to harder days  
the beam is aged oak,  
stronger than a simple life.