6:05 pm, Tuesday: The Start of What Must Be the End

The vacant high school lobby
knows nothing but her index finger 
and the way it hurriedly traces the second hand
around the face of her watch.

She only needs more time. 
She only has the window glass 
as her ocean.

She calculates the jagged loops
of her echoing voice into exhaustion:
"How much sleep can a person get when they only know how not to sing?"

She is kerosene 
for the flame;
breaths for the ideas that start moments.
She is aware of her mute contribution.
She sits feebly
in the center of the lobby and closes her eyes
like the world no longer wants to see them.