By Marion Michell
Like a coin pusher in a game parlour whose tokens
rarely reach the ledge I herd before me
all those things I ache to do. A penny
for a plan, naughts and naughts of them:
books to read, people to meet, work to make,
exhibitions to see, borders to cross, thresholds
to leap over. And the heart pounds,
and the brain shouts: syncopation!,
and the clock turns its face away –
tick tock, tick tock, hold that thought,
tick tock, tick tock, let it drop.
How many spend their days in darkened rooms,
stretch time unseen, unheard, unheeded?
I waver, say us, say them, and us again.