It has, it has been
Long Time. Taffy
hours, sweet, rotten
on teeth. 

Has been,
I.  Distinct in
non-sequential
being, my days random keys
not fitting any of a row of
locks. 

Do you crave sense?
Here’s scent, my own
unwashed.  Here’s sight,
hair cropped to mess.
Sound?  Whine
of martyr’s arrows.  Taste?
Regard the taffy hours
and their damage. And
under the fingers,
the lazy stubble.

Has been time
and time again.  Staring
into it, at me.  I,
respect abated in
seconds upon
reflecting.  I,
upstart once, deal
of the week now,
bargain.

Sweet rotten mouth.
Stink of not doing, of being
still. 

Lift every voice, birds
who magnify loss
at each dawn.  Allowing for
natural cessation, slow rundown
of the body, it can’t be long.
Has been long time already.

How much more?
I can’t chew, talk,
anything.  Sit and
slip.  Sit.  Long
Time pulling away
from my bite on it.

I’m never ready for my close-up

that shot that approaches
steadily

moving over the breakfast table
the orange scone decimated on the plate
the coffee pooling around the cheap mug
then ending gently but firmly
in a tight wrap upon my face
full of dark and light patches
and tiny bone-tone flakes
wherever I’ve dried out a bit

Not ready
any morning
for you to see me
so carefully

yet
you do

I endure it

because it happens
so often
and I still can’t believe that