my head floats off my body. I'm in
a board meeting. I'm out the
door. I'm taking notes. Sweeping
the floor. Checking off lists

of things to do. The taste in my mouth
of last night's beef stew. My tummy
is jumping. Must be gas. The clock is
ticking. Will this pass? The sun is rising

out my bedroom window. The ceiling
fan blowing the dust below. Counting
the minutes till he is finished. Adding in
sound while I'm diminished. Flattened under

his weight. Riding my tracks
like a long freight. Drying up like the
Mojave Desert. This is just a sport
before my morning chores.