047

Days, no longer filled
   with the rush of stressed bodies,
   the turning of pages or the
  

                                            three hour sleep-nights.

I feel myself
  adjust,

                            look around with is this
                    going to last ?

and cross my fingers that it does.

I’m not use to this life, this
constant nine-to-five      bed-by-eleven
always knowing what to expect
but somehow never expecting to know.

   It hasn’t been long enough to know if, after a month or two or twelve, I will turn into a runner or a fighter or painter or some other uncharacteristic hobby that, up until now, I hadn’t the time for.