Give Over

Leaving for Warwick,
still a little motion sick
from the B train this morning.

Reading and writing papers
while commuting
is the new black.

It is Tuesday.
I am a fish on land.
A sea creature with legs.
This must be how whales feel.

I’ve got to get back where I
can breathe.

Everything moves.

Deadlines. Deadlines. Deadlines.
If I don’t sleep soon.
Then what?
I want to ask.

Don’t write about it darling.
Delayed gratification
a sign of maturity.

I fold in on myself like dough.

The sky is grey,
wet with possibility.

My mouth is dry,
skin cool to the touch.


About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in fall, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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