It may have started with
bouncing balls and funny old men,
this stretching of time. But
it’s not that anymore.
Now it’s being awake, too, too long
at night and having all this to think about and
Feeling jittery from a coffee I had at 8 p.m.
so I could feel precise and dry with engorged veins
rolling over the bones in my hands
while I typed and typing
to sound smarter than I am (we both know)
in poems like this one; barren so I could
rush things.
I’m tired of thought experiments
and nervousness; I get sad when I think about
what I’m doing with numbers because
all I’m really doing is subtracting
and sneaking a few minutes with a piano
to feel like I can finally close my eyes.