The Hours Pass

The hours pass through the day
Sweep through the night and rest;
Like two plastic slippers side by side,
Equipped with bedside manners.
On some breath the words come free
In the trappings they’ve been laid
For self-preservation. From uneasy tumbling
All is spent on tomorrow
With all of its unanswerable memories;
I got lost in African’s eyes,
Lost in all that laughter and those tears
The forgotten ones cry.
How many fingers can hold a hand?
The children never mind. Music rattles the tin,
Incomprehensible in the absurdity of question.
Life is that way,
But will we dare come back.
Past midnight the slippers still sit there,
They still fit the dusty stains,
They are still in the hours of night.
Africa is outside but even more inside
Where there aren’t any hands to hold
Or envelop in snotty, sticky, smelly love;
Just the realities of giving.
And so the hours pass.