At 3 o’clock, for Karen M.
the walls tumble down & the voices turn arachnid
existing webs of worry moisten with the heat of losing focus
the ‘be in the moment’ ability turns terminal come fifteen hundred hours
so the drive home in the vehicle filled with teens is a travel through
a kind of hell through the pot-holed battlefield of Terrible Things in my brain
stop lights signals road rage roundabout when I arrive home my body
turns liquid & the spiders jump to the page for a last scrawl before exhaustion
takes control – and I let it
today is different because three o’clock came at ten & she was there to hold
my heart as it slobbered on the table between us stuttering out its bloody contents
like spilled coffee & we laughed & we nodded & we ate & we whispered & we got serious about Everything & Everything didn’t hurt so much
three o’clock comes every day but must I let the walls tumble?
spiders are good luck & Terrible Things thrive unstoppable & I can choose
how to navigate my personal hells I can offer them up to poached eggs
& bacon & sisterhood