Pressed

I don’t ask for help
because there’s nothing wrong;
It’s these damned unavoidable days-
Broken in the most alienating ways
And how I crave sunlight,
cash in hand, and the
sounds of streetcars and city cabanas
advertising syrupy cocktails-
Concoctions to dull our time
and senses.

I don’t mention it,
because it can’t be helped,
and it doesn’t help to mention.
My intentions are to return,
to work, to folks, to the higher call,
but these stalled days
feel like fingertips slipping
off the edge of the precipice,
And the silent falling
through some fathomless abyss

Because every surface is deep.
Plumbing the depths,
my casual breaststroke,
dredges infinite silt to pan,
to rub between hands
unconsciously familiar with the task.
Each granule forks in
endless serpentine directions-
These introspections are too numerous,
so I ask for leave-

Sunlight, and
some cash in hand,
For temporary, shallow relief.

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