Grading short stories.
Something at which I used to excel.

No longer.

The skill
has dissipated over a few
short years,
unfelt skin cells
snow-flaked
from my knowing
though
familiarity mote-floats
on the edge of my periphery -
unwanted ghost
from the too-recent past
whose rattling chains
I had thought to never hear again.

I am tired,
my neck, shoulders, back say - enough!
My heart says - divorce
this shitty deal,
this partner in misery
that compels you to waste
precious Saturday -
so, not worth it.
My head,
that pragmatic crane operator
ignores clunking gears,
complaining clutch,
near empty, hollow-moaning tank -
just a few more hours before
knock-off - speed it up!