Hours

I measure time by the shadows
that flicker on the walls of this room.
The hours feel like a constant backflow.
The trees outside the window are slow to bloom.

Cobwebs and dust motes are captured in sunlight,

little worlds that hang suspended in air.

I don't bother to turn on the light

or even to rise from this chair.

The red light on the radio tower flashes

on top of the hill in the west.

Our cat came home as a box of ashes.

My heart beats weakly in my chest.

My thoughts feel like a constant logjam.

The afternoon is slipping away at last.

Sometimes I forget how old I am

and how much time has passed.  - Jeff Barnes