Timeclock

Careening through a world of concrete
					    and plaster,
				     glass and
					    tunnel vision,
                            you learn to stop seeing past the end of your nose.
The periphery
           becomes obsolete.
      So I could not feel that the wind had changed,
                       mussing my hair
                            rustling my life.
        I was standing at the timeclock,
                punching in with a vengeance, 
           desperately trying to break the membrane.
   Every breath fueling my restless mission. 
     Every muscle consumed with ascension.
          Except one.
     One that you gently took from me
                        and tirelessly tended to
	like Cinderella struggling with the ashes.
    And now,
          the sky blooms pink
       and billows with thunder.
 Your name
          is jazz.
      A blazing torch song that beckons,
					   riffs,
						scats
       			into my subconscious.
          Gazing down from the top,
    into the urban abyss,
            the labyrinthine streets,
    only now do I see you there.
               One and a quarter step behind me.
      Happy to keep my dinner warm.
            Happy to tolerate
                          my ambition
                    like a shotgun.
     Happy to tear us both open at the seams
          and sew us into a single being
               one deliberate stitch at a time.
    And here is balance.
          Weighted evenly, side by side,
       facing tomorrow’s unknown together. 
      
     					






  


    

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