We stopped fighting.
The day sits still
on a rocking chair
that’s wooden thighs rub
the carpet.
Still – the day sits.
Pocketed: the hands of time,
turn and cross like the day’s legs which adjust and
shift.
You unpack your baggage.
Iron out insecurities from button-downs,
fold your denim – failure can be so casual.
The day leans back,
cradles time in his hand.
Time shifts, slides down his palm:
small as a cough drop, too small to tick.
The wooden thighs stopped,
they too are still. The sun –
the day’s anchor – has dropped behind trees.
You are still here, tracking in dirt, kicking at my foundation.
I keep my ammo pocketed:
hand-held joke grenades.
I will strike you with my spine last.
It shifts, straightens beneath my jacket,
finds comfort in its scabbard.
The wooden thighs rub forward and stop.
The day goes for the door. He keeps time with him
and leaves us alone.
Now I will fight back.