They’re never like Day Two, never like Day Four,
don’t behave like the start
and know no end either, do they, Third Days.
in the middle between the ends,
they seem torn and tear little bits
into a stagnating past and a future in motion
and do so in a rush and a twist, always, Third Days.
And so today,
on one of those days,
during the Season of Waiting, (naturally,)
I stand by the elevator and
the button TWICE again, even though
it’s already been pressed and
probably long ago, because
I am the last to join the herd (, naturally)…
I see the light. I know the lift is coming. I am not the only one waiting.
I hurry and worry and
gosh, here I catch a
glimpse of my frazzled self
in the chromium, so shiny and clean, and cannot help but ask what’s happened
since that day when I was birthed into this earth,
was made in One Image,
what happened to the ability to
reflect my own, project my own,
and give a face to the detection of
…well, certainly more than a pair of frantic eyes being stuck in the mirror?