Foot falls within footsteps
like stumbling
pen tip into trough,
the deep inset
palimpsest.
Ancient or moments fresh,
it hardly matters.
Someone has always
walked this line
someone has always
been here
first.
Poison taster's saliva,
Thief's prints.
Eyes glaze over
at my approach.
The air is stale,
the words I speak, scripted
my acts rehearsed
their conclusion foregone.
I am always second
and oh, how the second
knows time!
How to count little,
be less than minute,
and measure nothing
but impatience
and half thoughts.
If I were faster, perhaps
I could break this
hymen from within
be a virgin birth
an immaculate conception
But I have no miracles today.
Just expired milk
rancid and colorless
trapped
beneath the skin of time.
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