all day yesterday i thought it was tomorrow
because my watch’s day-of-the-month counter
had skipped ahead when i wasn’t looking.
i own two books on time and have completed neither of them;
i could be waiting for just the right moment,
which may also never come (or which has flown by unrecognized).
at the end of the week monday morning seems a century ago,
and if you ask me monday how my weekend was i won’t remember, despite
its surfeit of happy innocuous deeds.
for three minutes — now four —
i have sat staring into space,
trying to pen a pithy closing.
but midnight looms once more,
and i have lost all my wit.
