my daughter is a Meisner instructor,
demanding I repeat
the same line from her little brother’s
daycare report card.
I’m like a regular
on an old sitcom,
one with
thirty-nine
episodes
a season.
progress stalled by humor
until cancellation ends
the world
with nothing to hold.
every night, I transform into
a tickle finger monster.
a patient with a blood pressure.
a dragon who loves tacos. hold the spice please.
before my training,
I wrote plays in which
past and present were one and the same,
with characters weaving in and out
of their chronologies like needles through
chunky yarn,
leaving gaps
between promises of warmth.
I thought that said something about
memory and
how things never die and
maybe if there’s a payoff
here there’s no reason to…
now I only think in metaphor.
my children the clock.
my very own memento mori
staring directly into my eyes
again
again
again
Note: This poem is read by editor Caridad Moro-Gronlier.