The Yoke of Watching

A stream of consciousness on too much consciousness.

The Yoke of Watching

She talks of crushes and
Fire kisses and
Doesn’t know
It’s over.
Cigarette lines buttress
Her mouth like
Peach pits and she
Fumbles through
The discomfited memories of
Graceless attempts at life.
Without forgiveness
Why take the long
Descending road to
Fine funeral friends,
And sepia dreams,
Old linen memories,
And yellowed newspaper
Clippings and regret?
I touch my throat and feel
Time passing like pages flipped,
Cards shuffled
And what I know for sure
Fits in the pulled off top
Of an acorn.
Bare branches strum
On the window and
I can’t breathe
for the weight of me.