How many times has this earth
turned, the whole fat lump of it
barreling through space with me
strapped to my stillness, born into
motion as a condition of breath.
I could calculate the sum
but even that would hold no key,
such as stepping from the carousel
wobbling as if unused to this; such as
the coins that slip from my pockets
while nauseous on the Tilt-a-Whirl
and silver rain for the children?
How many times has that toothless
carny upthrottled the Octopus
bored on a late summer evening
in a vacant lot on the outskirts
of time while the unborn wait
with their tickets and grins, while
their parents, gaseous as Jupiter
wait by the fence too stuffed
with life to give it another go?
Would you? would I?
All tickets are torn as one
climbs on — as one flies off.
Image: Good Free Photos on Unsplash
Thank you, Bob.