An Interstitial Life
There are events that consume us,
that we point to as if they were big black dots on our
lifeline, and we say “after this or after
that, I will have time.” So we defer,
delay, detour around the stuff in between
the big black dots but as soon
as one dot recedes another appears and we
race towards it, blinders on, somehow knowing
that this event will be a turning point, a
special place where the light bulb turns on and
all the silly little pieces fall into place.
I am tired of big black dots.
I want to live between.
I want an interstitial life, sweetly rocked in the
swaying hammock formed by the lines
between the dots.