The Invisible Hand

The invisible hand on your back tenderly shoves you out of bed, into the shower, and out the door. And like a child pushed forward by parents to meet someone she does not want to, the hand on your back guides you down the street past the store fronts and restaurants you don’t want to pass and the people you don’t want to see. Your shoulders slump forward, your spine like a string of spaghetti curves into a question mark asking Why and Do I have to and For how long, which the hand replies to with Because you have to and Yes and For slightly longer. Day after day the hand becomes fainter and smaller, until one day it is only an and, and on these days it is hardest to do anything more than lie still and pretend to be still asleep, and anything else you can’t bring yourself to do is all right with the and because it just adds it to the list: waking and walking and waiting to cross and watching and smiling and small talk and