She's not done counting.
Sitting in the middle of the bed,
feet tucked under her,
white room boiling over with tension.
She hopes for safety.
What time is it?
The clocks don't keep time anymore.
The rain hasn't been steady in years.
The drums are no longer pounded evenly.
Portions.
Distribution.
How many months need to go by
for an understanding that the wheels,
those headlights, that copper painted body
won't roll up along the gravel again?
How many extra places need to be set at the dinner table,
how many reminders to turn the light off downstairs,
how many cold sides of the bed need to be felt,
to feel the sting of reality again?
How much longer will agony exist?