Today and today and today
Could there be time for such a word
For this day.
Just to get to the end of it, in
lockstep with the loved ones.
For my four year old.
Who struts, frets and tantrums, because
you shouldn’t have to leave the playground carrying your own bag.
For my friend in hospital.
Return her to mineral health,
rescue her organs from failure.
For my tea-leaves.
Remove the panic that their restorative properties
may never come back.
For all of us,
in every pop-up moment
offering trays of thought that don’t bear the drinking.
For all the todays,
each and all told by an idiot.
Shape them narratively:
give them a beginning, a middle and an end.
No awkward flashforwards,
no sweaty flashbacks gripping palms and fingers
around the neck of now.
Take your pretty place
You’re rich stuff for us poor players