May 21, 2020

Admission

I have paid not nearly enough

attention,
       even to the back of my hand.

Would I recognize it in a line-up?
I suspect I might get it wrong, mistake
it for the hand of another, a hand with
fewer dark marks surfacing like fish
in lazy water, meaty bottom-feeders
drawn slowly upward to eye the half-
moon – waning – heaving their bulk
to swallow the unwary night strider.

I am caught, empty-handed

and empty-minded,
       nothing to show for a lifetime

of looking away, or never looking
at all. These are the wages of

inattention,
       paid in hand and in full.