The Weight of the World on an Ankle

To these
alcoholic chairs,
walking upright on two
armrests, biding me
to sit and be
by the stitching,
my two feet deny,
instead head out
wandering, bracing
the earth
that continues to spin
on the soles dented
under the giant globe
that refuses
to slow,
I harbor
an angry cyclone
upon each
a draconian law
still clinging,
a radiant shackle
jingling on my ankle bone,
I try to shake it
free; but gods
have other plans.
Gods want me to crawl
with the world.

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