Sta.sh
Each day is its own microstep--
since I woke from my mother's womb,
I longed to mimic new words, trammel
the sound until it blossomed
like a newborn, and oh how I birthed
stories--told them how I wanted
the author's sacrosanct title
once I've grown. But growing meant
learning the practice of citizens
and their due contribution: beast-slaying
nature of please, thank you,
an apology: sincere
or not. Then there is time--the first
breath of nine, exhalation
of five, the suffocating mandate
of overtime. You grow used to it:
the cyclical disappearance of parents,
pervasive need of sleep, a home-
cooked meal's gradual transmogrification
to a microwave's impatient beeps,
the drive-thru's static, monotoned voice
by a man who has already learned
what I am learning: to cherish
the alarm's morning hymn over my mother's--
now I'm rarely late for work--can navigate
those can-lined aisles, the cold-grey
of the warehouse with deep strides
until I lose track of every step within
my eight hours--my mind always bursting
with plotlines and character arcs, ideas
too many: a spider caught in its own
gossamer web--at home, a stack of notebooks
and their yearning quietude, untouched
by a pencil's smearing prod; a desktop
littered with titled text files, but
a near empty white once double-clicked.
This must be my journey, I tell myself,
the giant stone that is my thousand miles
--after ten long years of work complete,
and only have I weathered off a chip,
have barely taken a single step.
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