Ambivalence

In the morning,

I feel it most.

The quiet aching,

a noisy ghost.

Leaving,

like leaves on autumn trees.

Dangling, rearranging,

ambivalent reluctance

in robotic ease.

From red rustling

to brown struggling,

I said goodbye,

my unexpected happy town.

Adapt, I must.

to leaves changing

all around.

Longing,

howling with the wind.

Convenience marching west to east.

Though I’m home,

the distance — I long to rescind.

Rustling papers,

Rustling leaves,

I was so fortunate

to be able to breathe.

During the day,

I feel it most.

The static hums

and muted chatters,

brisk cooler mornings

reminding myself — pursue what matters!

On my break,

I feel it most.

A fluorescent ring,

above itchy collars.

Not one, nor two — but three

have found

I’m nothing if not a spitballer.

In the evening,

It creeps up on me.

Hollowed, yet free.

Imprisoned, with a loaded glee.

The same, though?

It’ll simply

never be.

In the afternoon,

I live it most,

pausing in refuge,

yet heartsick

foremost.