(a fractured forecast)
By Robert LaComb
MORNING:
The sun is a struck match;
too bright, too fast.
I am all sparks,
no caution.
My hands can’t keep up
with my thoughts.
(I text you seven times
before breakfast.)
AFTERNOON:
A slow leak.
The sky sags like wet paper.
I forget words mid-sentence,
trip over my own silence.
You ask if I’m tired.
I say yes
but mean I’m sorry.
EVENING:
Static on the radio.
A flickering streetlamp.
I want to love you steadily,
but my heart is a dial
turning, turning,
searching for a signal
that won’t cut out.
OVERNIGHT:
The moon is a pill I can’t swallow.
I count sheep, then seconds,
then mistakes.
The bed feels like a life raft.
I whisper to the dark:
Tomorrow, I’ll be better at this.
(The dark doesn’t answer.)
(repeat.)