I Dream of Fortitude

The white board dilemma
of never being fully clear
without the alcohol.

This is how we/you dream:
pushing against the wall,
waiting on the thread count,
cotton in our ears.

I could see my hand
in the rusted numbers–
a foundation of chrome
built by finger smudges
and hastily wiped sleeves.

My hand lifts from the cradle
as I pay for the pleasures of waiting:
timber and tone,
waiting:
timber and tone.

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