the too-slow creep of
minute hands
empty hands
every hour with no trace
of call or sign or word
every sock that needs washing
every empty bottle
bills to be paid
words to be said
smiles to manufacture
the keeping up of spirits
new faces are old problems
new songs raise ancient smells
and thoughts of days
before the past
where are you?
you, who might bring
meaning to toothpaste,
purpose to water,
hot, soapy, hopeful
you, who might,
just by accident,
stir the rust
and lead me from
this bitter trail,
by saying
one new thing.