There are thirty ahead of me
and even the first seven seem impossible
without those letters in blue, like poetry,
garnishing my tomorrow.
Last year, the lines around the days
circled me like doe-eyed children
with stories of Beatrix's bunnies tucked
under the frayed edges of faded pink protection.
But now, each minute, each hour,
my eyes beg the clocks
for a livelier tempo
to balance my pulse.
The lines between the days
box me in as I race
in place through each tick
of every clock in sight.
My watch, my computer,
my cell phone, in the office,
I hear them all, their silence
stalks my impatience, scales my angst.
I make myself breathe in--out,
breath in--out. Your eyes hang on
each breath that I have searched so desperately
for an honest reason to hold in,
but what I find pries open my throat
and sucks the you from me.
So one foot and then the next,
I step into the next day.
The ticks are a little quieter here.
The breaths, a little easier.
And each hour has a few less
splintering seconds.
