Each finger is a wheel of time.
Banging against the skins,
an audience transfixed
and if not, then jumping, flailing.
Air is hot. It makes us move
slowly, though our desire
for rhythm rockets.
Each finger is a wheel of time.
I lose some dead skin on my fingers each day.
Lately, I wake up with more
wanting to fall off.
It's as if I'm molting.
A good restaurant or cafe
allows you to take your time.
Never to wear a watch,
wait for the wind to blow outside
and slowly, deliberately
put down your fork.
Each finger is a wheel of time.
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