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.
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