September 2, 2022 7:01 pm Published by Leave your thoughts

By Kay Channon

Same day, different body

time has moved on.

Living by amber light flashing, never green.


I wonder how to tell this story without repeating my grieving,

my fear so near, doorways become hallways,

with laughter on the outside

set to a 4/4 beat, my ears ringing from a brain retreat,

replaying the past, as people who claim ‘normality’ move calmly around me.


I return to the hallways

phone in hand, I’d like to know where I stand.

“You are number 17 in the queue”, which leads to another automation, 

dedication two dead ends growing, doctors’ sympathy flowing with seemly stock photos showing.


This is the wrong medicine. 


I’ve started writing letters again

thinking the ink may feel more real.


The stamp, unfranked, can be reused

fingerprints mark the paper 

away from view,

our handshake dream a little too distant

© Kay Channon

August 2022

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