Shovel

Every morning it’s like

I jump off the back of a truck

with no idea of where I was

or where I am

or who.

Wondering if you give a damn.

I know you do.

There are pieces of me

lodged in your chest,

but your defenses

went and buried them.

Maybe time can be a shovel.

Until then, I’ll cuddle my cats

and read books

and try to take chances on things

that might bring joy.

I could employ excavators,

plug myself into generators,

but it would only last so long.

I’d fall on my face

when the fuel was gone.

I want to feel better,

so I’ll type letters into my phone

and run along.

Until then, I’ll huddle up with friends

and my demons

and try to reason with

rushing water falls,

with an orange sized sun

that’s burning near my lungs

and dripping juice into my wounds.

It won’t be long.