I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. – T.S. Eliot
Holding quiet breath and pouring another
cuppa. Hear the clock? It’s mocking us.
Tick tick ticks me off, really, all these little
boxes awaiting checks. All these unbalances
breathing down our necks. All.this.weight
-ing. Emergency! (Oh, no, not really. Just
triage, a little spilling of skin.) Recovery: two
steps forward, three cups back. A lack. A tea
spoon. An angry moon. Nothing more than
one more click of silence. A spoonful of sugar,
a swirled black sting. Just the thing: a band
-aid and a smile. Two itchy inky fingers of rum
-bled phrase. A vein. Perhaps a smallish gather
-ing of crows, or prose. I suppose limbo is just
another place we pause, gather ourselves back
into puddles, from rain. Stop. Spill me, again.
Linked up over at dVerse, for Open Link Night. Come read some amazing poets!