The sun rises
strange through strange clouds and
for a moment,
lost in the idea that I’m supposed to
be somewhere, supposed to
be headed in some measurable direction,
like the way the Earth spins steady,
winding the sun around and around its fingers.
I want to be like that,
and sure of the path I’m supposed to travel across my own sky.
But the lights here flicker strangely as I
blink my way into the day as if the very act of moving forward will
propel some kind of metaphorical certainty of purpose.
I wish I could tell you that it’s working,
this attempt at creating
my own gravitational pull strong enough to
launch me into my own orbit–
but any physics 101 student could tell you:
it doesn’t work that way and in fact
in the rush of time,
in the wake and crash of voices down the hall,
my metaphor crumbles in my hands.
Outside, the world keeps spinning.