Wedged somewhere between the aughts
In the early morning hours
What is it you hear?
Scatting of a bird
Or the ticking of the clock
Down the hall

The sun filters in, golden
Through wooden slats
Bitter coffee waits to be made
Sweet with cream and
Drops of maple

Home is slow and silent now
In this residual world
Where you rise and work
Busy yourself with tasks
Waiting to pick up where
Life left off

Spring is still here,
Blooming and cool
Soothing to the nervous spirit
You can still step outdoors,
Breathe in jasmine and fresh air
Humming, meditating, on newness

For now you follow a different routine
Connect, find comfort in what is
Around with new appreciation
Embrace a slow morning
And an easy evening
Sunshine and small escapes

I have the feeling
Of not knowing how to express
Any of what’s going on

But do I even know what I feel?

I have the feeling
Of letting go some big chunks
all of them belonging to the past

But can I even be sure they are gone for good?

I have the feeling
Of complete numbness at times
Completely overwhelmed by all and nothing

But isn’t numbness a feeling too?

I have the feeling
Of new things approaching me
In the sense of change in character

But does that mean this is who I want to be?

I want
To breathe
To understand
What's wrong with me
I feel like this is temporary
This
newness
But I know it's permanent
The loneliness
I keep going
but I don't want to

It feels just like yesterday, whispers
a croaking voice inside, so familiar,
but ownerless, like that same white van
passed on every morning’s commute, a canvas
where somebody beautiful took the time to
spraypaint in pukegreen bubbleletters
“WELCOME TO HELL”, to
urban sprawl, or capitalism,
or something? Something, slinking like a
roach through rotting throngs of desperation
marching blind through subwaycar shackles,
carrying away the hopes of tomorrow on
yesterday’s dollar, building justifications
for plunder out of cold metal and glass…

eyes open. I open the morning door,
pierced by a crow’s shadow at
oppressive dawn. Bleary, half-formed,
each step out of the homeshell and down
the street feeling slowed down, like
the air has hardened into a sea of fudge,
saccharine bliss of ***** birds resembling
the endless sobs of the guilty, keeping them
down, today, locked up inside—

I have wasted years
apologizing for not being
enough to replace this futility—
I have no butterfly net
big enough
to seize the day.

On the far side of an idyllic fence
a groundhog darts out from a hedgerow,
barreling awkwardly, shamelessly,
away from the familiar cover of the underbrush—
Sparkling, from this distance,
playfully glazed with new sun
this shuffling ball of fur
hurtles through the empty field…

Why can’t I?
Stepping up and into
public transport, metallic husk,
the question remains, lingering
far after the sounds fade out.

--Graham Kellner