Scrolling shoulders
on an android before sleep,
wasting lucky days off,
writing sloppy poetry.

Elbows folding in on selves,
neck retreating into chest.

Anticipation of excitement.
Something new from suddenly
worn out provocations,

muscle all their own.

Perhaps I'm simply concealing
unfinished products?

All I know is haste will leave my brain.
All I know is I'm likely to forget, or search wrongly for

ungodly, rudimental possessions.

I won’t forget, apart from everything I
must remember not to.