Time is a lonely bastard child. I know
how it feels.
I explore the spaces inside, moist hollows
where the angels once worked
their mischief. Strange
what you can grow accustomed to. I probe
the old scar tissue: smooth, numb
in places. I imagine I can feel
their shades, tactile afterimages: a zombie
reflex, a longing
for a longing. It pulls
at the center of my chest.
I miss the certainty of need.
I examine new possibilities, take
steps, show interest, craft a proposition,
cut a book deal. I have always been honest,
for others, even at my worst. I read. I write.
I observe, offer advice. Business is easy
to come by.
I have my way with words.
I nurture the spark, zap
it with alternating current, breathe life
into the old girl. She gags,
stutters for breath, settles into a ragged
purr. Obsolete and in need
of a tune up, but serviceable. Not so nearly