Becoming

My friend shows me his arthritic 
fingers, and I try to click my trigger 
thumb. But he can't hear the noise 
it makes because of the vacuum cleaner 
sounds made by the tinnitus in his ear. 
I suppose we're getting to the age 
when we can start to tell the difference 
between a dull hurt and a door that's 
permanently closed, between the new-new 
shine of chrome encasing a cheap plastic
interior and the unpolished gleam of a body
whose limp is louder than its mind. The world
loves words like résumé, strategic, and 
effective positioning. It rewards the one
who hasn't even earned their name,
the one who hasn't stood at the edge of
an ultimatum or answered a call at midnight
which rearranged the entire plot of a life.
I sometimes take my graduation ring 
out of its box and wear it, just to remind
myself I know some shit. I've learned
that forgive doesn't mean forget, but also
how shame burns hot at first but you can
learn to outlast it. Becoming is long, hard 
work, and I know I only have these ordinary 
days to build from, to cobble some light 
even from failure for the rest of the path.