THE BOOKKEEPER

 

the dry as dust bookkeeper

adjusts the round spectacles

on his angular nose

and says, without emotion:

"nine hundred sixty five days

eleven hours

twenty three minutes

and fifteen seconds

that's all you have left"

but will she send letters to me 

to my dark and sealed office?

how--without a keyboard

and me--brain desiccated

bones tangled in a heap

fingers here and there

how will I reply?

and narrate to her

my painful loneliness

my wasted regrets

and shards of love.