Separating my fingers
From the days manageable load
Of monotonous
Pull and push and push and pull
The heart
Surprisingly
Still beats with a vigor that is unmatched
In the head
If I only I could take more time
To give a ****
If only the clocks would slow
As I go and go
If is a word that dreamer's use to separate their fingers
Like the dough men of Paris bistros
Or boxers cracking their knuckles
Or master story tellers leaning back to let the sun hit them
In the perfect place to feel their pace
The word if is the burst of confetti
At the start of a party, a wedding, an unusual funeral
And reality
Reality is the strewn wreckage of multi-colored
Mix and matched
Chaotic and beautiful squares crying
Like a plastic explosive made of diamonds unimagined
We all want to live in the confetti world
We all want to live in the if
We all want to want the dream to become true
And the funny thing is
When it happens
Not I
Not a one of us
Would know entirely
What
To do