To have woven into fact
the minute hand,
already half past half—
wind it back to when
I could, respectably,
count to three and say
I’m done.
Make it five and I should
be
jolting out into
the drowsy pocket
of a Thursday noon,
crazing my toes into panic.
My sockets refuse,
tingle,
and I can’t,
can’t.
I sink the lazy eyes
into a cup of bitter black
at a station meant for
busying waitresses and
buzzing silence.
I see only crazed
crazed
sockets, blazing into midday
Thursday-bleak,
sitting near a cheek
where the black,
black,
is taken in.
All grim and business,
chugging grit,
we sink the grainy black
from dinged ceramic
mugs.
It’s one.