Teenage Atlas, in the Kitchen

His cereal spoon is a hundred pound weight.
The mug is resentful. His arms hang limp,
gravity yanking him like a leash.
He’s been sinking slowly ever since
he realized we’re not all safe;
the chair legs splinter under him.
He leaves footprints in the tile.
The other Titans have outgrown their heroics
and gone off somewhere to have a beer,
talk about TV and inevitability.
They leave him behind, the last kid at the table,
chewing his cold food with patient bites.
He swallows the soggy hunger of others,
tumid stomachs of children and gap-ribbed dogs
whose faces bloom like mold in his mind.
High school would be much easier
without them clinging to his shoulders,
his scrawny neck dangling with their mass grave.