Thinning

Your old photo is a great lake of what ifs
that floats a skiff of because, whys
excuses and maybes creased with
short strokes slapping splashing
shouting hurry up let’s go until

what’s next leads to now. What’s
the hurry? I stare. You are blurry
and presently you squeeze my
neck  – the orange juice is ready.

Coffee drips.
The calendar
thins.
Your scalp
shines.

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