You Nearly Always Feel This Way Now
You nearly always wake in a panic, thinking the time has passed just before the alarm sounds, or the moment just before the highway exit appears you could have sworn you’d missed it a while back, or that impulse to drop, and much later to return to putting the problem back together again, one memory bleeding into another just before overwriting it, forgetting what it was you were about to say, the stuttering sound of fresh ice interrupting as the sunrise takes over the landscape, the first time you felt carried away by a force larger than your own, or when it occurs to you that you nearly always feel this way now, as one moving with hunger to the table, like you’re lost in conversation with the man in your way – a father, or a boss, or a lover, or a god.
Originally Published By: Connecticut River Review