It's 5 o'clock. Do you know where your life is?
I see the list in your hand: Eggs, napkins, toothpaste, broccoli.
The back of the driver's seat holds a map you haven't looked at in years.
Sometimes, you think about your art teacher from fifth grade. If pressed,
you'll recite your old school song, or what you chanted around the fire
the last day of camp. Mostly, though, there's that list and that map
and everything you slide between them like a sandwich, the real estate so worn
you argue against the idea of a different meal. There are things to do, you say,
tucking the paper in your pocket and lifting the keys, as always, from their hook.
I'm running out of time, the sky whispers back, waving a pale finger of light in your direction,
hoping you'll notice.