The day sits waiting in it's pear-shaped
room, one of the vacant eyed occupants of other, older,
The day crosses it's knees, one leg
over the other as a white flag,
The day wants it's peace,
it fought the world wars, caught it's reflection aged,
tripped over itself
calling itself out, a
This day knows it won't live tomorrow,
knows it's wanted blind and poor, so waits
in a waiting room,
wasting the room's air in an exchange of
This day is counting down it's losses, putting
all of it's seconds in a jam jar.
And there are screams never externalised, legs never uncrossed,
paperweights weighing less than those they push to the floor, and
this day is
this day is
from the inside out in the form of folded linen,
inconspicuous on a plastic chair.
This day holds
up the moon,
hears it's laughter and falls through the cracks
in the tide.
His knuckles aren't
connected to his fingertips and
shoulders feet apart
from the spine,
the spine crossing one leg over the other in a pear-shaped room
with fingertips tapping at themselves, writhing into an hourglass formation.
This day is holding
up the walls.
Count this day lost when your eyes skip it, miss it, dance past it
in a waiting room.
Count this day screaming
when you wake up tomorrow.