Quiet Failing

When I got tired of blaming everyone else 

and worn out by the shock that I could not forbear, 

when the lung clogged pause of the air was the only cue I took, 

I looked to scatter the drama of the day, flatten a flow 

so a can kicked would be a bother that only I could remote view; 

me in my pyjamas at one and by two halfway down the street 

patting my pockets in admission of another day done

on something to be retrieved back on the porch.

My tongue clicking, wheeling round, 

quietly remembering I made all the time in the world 

for an errand since my life strings out in sections, 

where I blame all else for staking claims on my time,

and profligate my months seem like weeks seem like days.