this months virtue.

remembering dance hall awkwardness to
keep pace with these four walls all day sunday.
3/4 time in time to run down my best intentions of commitment.
even though i am not sure what that means, so i go
to the fridge and pour a glass
of milk to accompany my cigarette.
the only clock that is supposed to be keeping me
punctuated is an hour slow.
which is ironic. bach plays in
the background and i lament not having any plants.
i am struck by the confusing beauty
of the sarabande. i finish my cigarette and
walk back in time to the bedroom with its circus tent subliminal musings
and put on a shirt because its fucking
cold in here
now that i've stopped out pacing myself
i can focus on this months virtue
and commit to the idea of being around longer than the last note
lingers so i can retrace my steps
and realize my best intentions were running in circles
where there should have been a waltz.