One Day

One Day…

 

He tried to write a poem

but didn’t know how.

 

Meters, rhymes,

schemes

he had none of that.

 

What he had was this:

 

waking at five-thirty,

skipping breakfast,

racing to work,

body already there,

mind still catching up.

 

A new edge from Adderall.

A sign in his hands

telling strangers when to stop,

when to go,

when to slow.

 

It paid for cheap booze,

cigarettes,

barely enough of either.

 

The poem stayed unwritten.

 

A community college instructor

told him he needed structure,

lines, breaks, rhythm.

 

“I don’t know any of that,” he said

to a girl he wanted

to impress.

 

She told him to stay in his lane.

Take what God gave him.

Leave the rest.

 

But he had something,

didn’t he?

 

A way of seeing.

A pressure in the chest

that felt like it meant something.

 

“No,” she said.

“I don’t see it.”

 

Then, almost kindly:

“Maybe I just had my eyes examined.”