Forty Seven

The poison that is everyday.

So many everydays. One everyday that follows another everyday.
Everyday that’s so everyday.
Habits, routines, circadian rhythms, time – lies that we tell ourselves that our lives are under control.

Like the time-lapse in the subway, under flickering lights, fleeting faces that flit like flies, the fleeing hands of the subway clock. The time-lapse, where we are the constant. Where we pointlessly stare at the dustbin. The cooing of the underground. The gentle rumbling. The lull.

The sedateness of everyday.

Everyday slips in, in a moment of lowered consciousness.
Through the holes of fingers nettled in prayer for strength.
Everyday slips in, like faithful Morphene for chronic pain of the Eventually Forgettable variety.

And then, after many everydays, comes a One Day.

Thirty

It pours in sheets.
The neighbour children are squealing.
It pours in sheets
that obscure their little dance, when they steal drops forbidden,
for fear of illness,
and consequently missing
a day at school, a test, a rank, an academic title, a career, a salary, marriage, fulfilment.

The windows busy themselves – their banging business.

So many sounds to remind me I miss voices.
and that I tire of my own, sounding in my head – loud, loud. And louder.

Atwood’s landscapes revisited – fallen logs, brambles, kitchen knives.
And feet under chairs traveling
round and round, in circles.

An urge to grab life with both hands,
But for
Malnutrition, fatigue, burnout
and the dreaded demise of patience.