Watching that thin-armed wave, the fixated plover-wailing stare
stare and staring and a mouth like a perfect tiny ‘o’.
It tugs the heart out of me, the bile and the slow monthly reminder
reminder, potential sloughing off and thrown away;
a boulder-pushing need turned inadequate by inadequacies
and adequate design, an elegant failure.
A layer of dust settles over my broken system, its integrated parts
in part too partitioned neatly by pills and promises
to be mended.
There is nowhere I can go to ask God or White Coats to be faster,
before I am too old and the fruit becomes too bittersweet.