I am an irony.
The medics often call it
an emergency.

Though I assume, the poets
would argue and claim it
a masterpiece.

To call it as it is,
I prefer the term
tragedy.

Moronically,
I am a walking clock
ticking until

the time is up.
A camera clicking
until the film is out.

I am a miracle
and ten.
An excuse for a daughter.

A waste of a warm seat.
Extra space in the luggage,
never a carry-on.

I am the embodiment
of sand
drifting through the desert.

A pebble stuck in a shoe.
A wet sock with a hole at the end.
As inconvenient as may be,

I am
a testimony.
A promise

waiting to be met.
A memory
that hasn’t happened yet.