It’s come and won’t again.
She should get a journal,
gather the day on the end of her pen
like candy floss
and push it into paper
like a scar

Else she’ll be dead before she’s noticed
But she’s got a headache and didn’t we all just used to
walk and eat and talk and eat

Is life short or long?
She thinks she’ll let it go on
Like a game of scrabble