the end of August is ending
in its dusty, muddy way.
I didn't think our days
would be numbered so,
even though we'd talked about it,
and already today looks like a wasteful one.
Lately every seat I've taken
I've held my knees to my chest
in both arms. I feel better that way.
There's trouble in my troubled guts.
By breakfast time, my back will hurt
from sitting here like this writing my sadness.
Who are we, any of us, but strangers to ourselves
when the ones who know us leave?
My deepest day the day I wrote this line -
would I write better if I had more scars?
I think, probably not. Just my insides come apart.