9

9 first the minutes slip away like a rug pulled from under my feet he was alive a minute ago here in this white room with the whistles and bells in accompaniment. the hours follow on quickly as the race way of a mill. suddenly the wheel turns and grinds minutes caught and mashed together he is still warm but, the stillness is whole months slow as if to move backward nine, now nine and blocks of time pass devoid of thoughts of him until I open the door to his room where I have hidden him in boxes he waits so patiently in a box, as gray gritty ash, for me to come to take him home but I can not we have a date our last I promised but not yet.