Sticky Staccato

These days turn over

Restless.

Flipping through the pages

Of a tattered book,

The story line, 

Zooming by—a blur.

These days,

Are the slow 

Spill

Of soapy water

Dripping from the kitchen counter

Pooling on the floor,

Memories forming

Like a puddle,

Waiting to be splashed.

A portal 

To the past.

These days

Take afternoon naps

And stay up late into the night

nocturnal conductors 

pushing their hands

Against a ticking staccato.

These days are custom made

And one size fits all

And too tight

And too long

And too loose

And too worn

And too short

And too ugly

And too beautiful

And too few

And too great

And too many

And.