She
has her hands crossed
across her chest as though
trying to keep her heart in or
trying to keep
his words out. She
wants hime to find words
worth asking; she wants
him to find stories
worth telling. He
keeps his cheeks puffed from
Chex Mix and Pepsi, commercials
about Doritos, football, and
scant stories about past
Monopoly games, Battleship; there's
not a lot of surface tension – she's
talking to him about the connections
he may have make between these games
and his mistakes – he's
been momentarily saved from orange
jump suits due to age, but time
will not run counter-clockwise, so
she wants to ensure he's running right.
People give multiple chances, but
the clock's hands only seem to tighten.
Noose-like, time runs taut, so she needs to teach
so that her lessons don't become past tense.
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