Forever, It Appears
I wake and find it’s day again.
It happens every time.
It makes no difference if I crush
the day between my hands—
or wring or drop or squish the day
as if it were the frog,
the frog bath sponge instinctively
returns to its set shape—
I watch its simple eyes, so soft,
reopening like hours—
forever, it appears, expecting
to be taken care of.
