seconds slipping

always this wretched conundrum about the seconds bound, in a day
and now i'm too damn tired to write
fresh this morning, gazing on sleeping figures, in a row rocking gently as if basinets in a nursery, gentle faces
the sun threatening the horizon as my ride rattles onward north,
two young men, never quite meeting gaze, palms graze smoothly in greeting that is allowed
the rasping gasping breath of mrs m, her brow furrowed like sand dunes just before the gust that flattens them, giving way to a smile for taking the time to explain what the herd of big brains would not, they never see them though they claim them as purpose
mi amore, mrs q at 99 years young, a light too bright to be extinguished
asking only and simply to go home
the gentle vibration in my pocket, a whisper distraction that makes me smile
in the hustle of my juggling act with lives, deft hands, near total focus, dropping nothing
the wonder at how i always seem to surface, just as the bustle to home carries me with it,
how easy it would be to drop into a deep sleep and end up in marine park, much as i love the ocean
i'm glad to be crawling in my own bed, the last chord still humming in the air
as she hangs on the wall,
me alma