It’s not as easy as I make it look:
this breathing in and out.
It requires a certain amount of concentration,
a deliberate placement of one procrastinating foot in front of the other.
(the morning moaning to me to leave her alone:
whimpering how she’s had enough, enough already.)
Dinners are hardest, with dreams long worn to the nub
and the day’s thousands of reminders refusing me to forget,
and that is how I come to this place where I pretend to sleep, pretend to walk around
as if there were a reason and a purpose,
pretend that the thought of breath (someday without effort and force)
is not strange and thick
is not a foreign language and me too old to learn
is not liquid and beyond the swim.