Now is different.
This year, this day. Everything
might be the last of its kind. You know?
Not like dinosaurs,
but the small nameless creatures no one finds
until they’ve up and disappeared.
The other day, there was a documentary
about some dumb animal on TV.
A frog. They turned its habitat into a highway,
like something straight out of the Hitchhiker’s Guide.
That made me laugh.
They only found the one,
gave it a name, let it go.
When I was young, someone built roads
through jungles, over mountains.
It might have been me.
Here time is a smell staining the walls.
These days, all I do
is watch TV, look at the calendar.
The squares are holes to fall in.
Where do I live? A small room.
A bed. The doctor does not know me.
She asks what are you thinking,
what does it feel like,
are you in pain.
Of course I don’t answer.
I guard what secrets
I still have.