Pegs. Panic. Patience.

I. 

I’m back to drinking half latte, and panic

gulped down in the first moments as I wake;

because the room’s vast and far too empty,

because on the floor patches of sunlight break

into shards without a sound. I grope lyrics

like lifelines, the chords that grounded you and me;

the clock twitches, the wall behind it aches

and the universe’s just another tic.

The sonnet’s handiwork hangs a bit awry -

the peg’s loose, or maybe the fault’s in my eye.

The coffee’s a whirlpool, a muddy vortex

that, at the very start, sucks the day dry

and hides its gift somewhere under the dregs.

I drain the cup. But nothing tightens the pegs.

II.

I also know you’ll return here in days,

the distance between us duly shortened,

the room warmed, its emptiness made richer.

All travel-sore wandering must end -

we each loop back even as we step away;

the river herself finds and lets us bridge her,

each crossing however rough, does unbend

and let us through, barring minor delays.

It’s easily written: destiny, it’s fate;

the reward will come, just be patient and wait.

Patience will somehow wrangle its rewards.

What if it doesn’t? or it comes too late?

what if it panics at the shortfall of words?

The peg’s still loose though I hammered it hard.