The bench upon which paint looks like bleach
I have seven hundred and thirty-one days.
that’s seven hundred and thirty-one sunsets
and seven hundred and thirty-one lunches
and dinners and breakfasts
two more summers
two more birthdays
the future lingers in front of me like a string in front of a cat.
the blanket that covers my feet shakes my bones.
drawings spatter on the wall behind me.
bleach coats the floor in front of me.
or is that paint?
three hundred and sixty-five days.
that’s three hundred and sixty-five sunrises
and three hundred and sixty-five breakfasts
and lunches and dinners
one more winter
one more cake
the drapes fold over the window, cinched at the corners.
have the days passed so bleakly?
to my right is me and you look back.
are you counting?
