Small Pockets

The days don’t fit

inside my pockets anymore.

I never had to think about

their size and shape before.

The hours used to trundle

like a train on solid tracks.

Now the minutes stretch like taffy,

never snapping back.

I wish I could remember

when my front door became a portal,

turning my shoes sticky

and forgetting I’m but mortal.

I tire of the slingshot

that flings body parts away.

My brain is still inside my head

but how long will it stay?

The marbles rattling, always battering,

between my fragile ears.

They get louder when the drums fail

to remind me I am here.

In the middle of a day

that is close and far away

that I can mold with my mind

that’s made of pieces and of vines

the complications ticking time

hours and months in silent chimes

and I am in charge but not at all

and who will catch me if I fall?

and where is the front door?

there, yes, but not anymore.

Because my pockets are too small.

The days don’t fit.

No, not at all.