My poem writing is a little shaky at the moment, because I have not been practicing. Quite horrid of me, I know.


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Opening the door to a stranger and seeing the future.
I can choose to shut the door
Or open it again and again.

The vase on the table full of flowers needs more water,
Ignoring that won’t bring them to life.
Some things are certain, but this time

It’s really hard to predict if it will end.
Will I return the borrowed coat?
Or will I iron the collar and fold the towels?

Those things are unimportant.
Because it is how I dry my hair
And remembering to change the oil—

The moments of time.