Poetry

Per Second (squared)

Three fifteen,

One hundred and eighty plus five lots of three

Minutes of our last meeting read over

Once more

Three fifteen,

One hundred and eighty plus five lots of three

We move so close

So slow

Stoic testaments to our declining self-interest.

As each second passes we lose a micrometer per second

Per second the seconds making the time

Before we touch last that little

Bit longer than it

Should

I

Finally

Come within

Reach of you and your flesh

But as each second passes per second

Per second of micrometers lost mean we both know

We can never make contact again

Or we’ll never let

Go.

Michael Bates