A Measure of Days

It is the measure of my days,
this gauge of how far to push
and how to step.

I accommodate, I do not live.

For once, I yearn to be
thick
and clumsy,
crashing valuables to the floor
in my exit.

I do not struggle, I only drown
while you sit satiated and safe.

The only thing is for me to turn,
closed like a fist,
against the pressure of your
dis-ease.

And you would judge me for it,
thinking I am unkind
to tend so haphazardly
to my own soil.