…a subject to my subject

My fingers have been

tapping insistently

for ten years, maybe.

I’m alert, noticing

they’ve stopped.

The wooden table

surface is sunken.

It’s chipped and hollowed.

Little shavings in piles.

Have I always been here?

This new silence is the answer.

I see sunlight and sweat

on the backs of my hands.

My claws are blunt.

My anxiety is spent.

I thought I’d been

walking around doing

things and enjoying things,

but that was just a film I saw.

Several films I guess.

I was the protagonist.

It wasn’t real.

Now, I think, this might be?

I search the silence.

Possibly singing somewhere

far away but I’m going to stand

and scout high and low for it.

I don’t know these words.

I’ll learn them.

I’ll try really hard to get up

and learn them.

Want to say my name out loud.

Don’t know it.

Forgot or never knew?

It’s time to check out

or check out something.

The day is young

and so am I, more or less,

despite the years, enthralled

by tapping on wood

to the tunes of

rendered lives.

It’s all subjective

like her beauty

but she knows

what I think.

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