Some morning of knives and nausea, at the cliff’s edge in the kitchen, scarring formica for a slice of bread for my stomach to bite down on, my time will be packed up, free of forethought, and I will put away the clock and eat, in the yellow kitchen, my bread, and sleep.

You will be gone then, for good, good, good; your porter, your redcap, old I will have lugged the baggage out. Will you tip me a kiss, a quarter, will you smile, wave and wave and wave a while?

When my red phone caught the rings, I wouldn’t treat it, I ignored it. Better it sick than me sick. But then “knock knock hello hello I wouldn’t come back but I love you so” and you’re in, unpacking you. I wound the clock but didn’t set it, since all I care is how long.

At night you are always hot to that side of me near you, so I turn and turn, and I turn, like a man on a spit, not to burn, but be done, be done.