I’m gritting like I’m running out of time,
teeth grinding away at my ancient pearl,
like my old newspaper days on deadline,
or at front door for first date with a girl.
Once was, clock hands waved me off in despair,
clock face snarling, story’s last graph hiding
from sight, editor glaring with death’s stare.
Now smart phone’s digits silently chiding,
ghosts whispering chants of how no one cares
how I end up, or where. This warm winter
day, bare breeze lisping warnings, my gaunt chair
creaking complaints, I plea for my center
to something far away. No response. Sum
of all breaths flees me, fearing what’s to come.
Roger Armbrust
February 16, 2020
