good turn

I guess I’m always on the clock despite my expansive indolence and the drift of my every mission. I guess I’m always counting down to something. The phase of the moon, the current favored turn of phrase, the time until the next time. The numerals waiting in turn, the names playing duck duck goose, the music playing whether there are chairs. A song from the heart, the ring tripped ‘round. One good turn, as it begets. 

Outside, the gray morning rings with birdsong and dog tromp, the ritual of sparrows and squirrels. Smoke spills and pine limbs sway, the cool breeze seeping slow through the morning. You can read it how you want. You can go on the way you thought. Sometimes the urgencies are over lapping. Sometimes it’s a four way red blinking at a lonesome intersection where you only slow for etiquette. This is not the hour, this is not the day, though there are worries outside the gates. Above it all, the sky takes its time.

I’m with the dogs when the professionals drop in. I don’t mix it up too much with the plot. Everyday is a new alarm. Every day another fresh hell disclaimer. There used to be a story before it wore down to the joke. There used to be poetry until it was whittled down to one bare poem. The words suggesting you look back, you look further, you look within. The words just there to make you look. There between mirrors, the way the notice is served.