The Check Is In the Mail

She has a dust rag in her hand. A husband on her shoulder. She has to stoop to see the sun. Because he'd always bent down to see everything.

It worked as any machine would. Doing what it was told. Extracting motions from those around. Until every wave had dissipated.

Only then would it try to find an alternate source of combustion.

Like the alley cat. Like the lost dog. It wants a home, but knows not how such a thing might exist.

It's not hard to live. Just hard to admit that you never really wanted to.

They'll tell you how lost you are. But never provide a logic for their rightness.

They'll say they're happy, but I'll never believe them.

Because no one is.

We just want to live because we don't know what else there is to do. Or how much more it might hurt us.

The clock chimes. Somehow it's tomorrow again.

We imagine ourselves alive, but we don't know at all what it means to live.

Worshipping this midnight because all those other gods never listened.

I've never been a rabbit. Re the race. Not that arrogant.

Nor a tortoise. So steady. It's laughable.

Maybe they know, but I see doubt in their grin.

Maybe they're old enough, but I've seen no indication. I just held the bark tight to my chest as the saw buzzed. They said I should fall, but I wasn't ready yet.

I don't know what they wanted.

But I do know how hard it was to say no.