A thought.
A single, tiny thing.
Just a thing.
That lingers and lolls
across the upholstery
of my insecurities.
It won’t make room
for another or,
at the very least,
take its feet off my

I’ve stopped
offering it

If left unfed,
how long will this
thought survive?

Will it
curl and harden,
to the ground
like the last leaf
admitting defeat
to winter’s arrival?
One more thing
to sweep up.

Will it wander
down the hall,
settle into
the guestroom,
slide into sleep
as I dust shelves
and mend curtains?

Will. it. simply.

I can’t wait.
I have things to
attend to. And
I don’t want to
leave this
single, tiny thing
unattended, free
to linger and loll
and make a mess
of my house.

I’m out of tea
and out of time.

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