step out onto the foopath
to relive the notion
of being sixteen, with an umbrella
& a pair of shoes for walking.

it's been raining the past few days,
the perfect time to muse over
everything that's been
puzzling me.

the clarity of knowing
that nothing can be known
then stopping to read the tea leaves
tell the old man "sorry, i am sorry"
but he doesn't seem to mind.
shake the water off my umbrella,
turn into the waiting room &
hold my breath. my rib cage
tied in knots

think of you before i get to sleep,
crazed by the patience that
i don't possess.

it really doesn't matter, because
somewhere between my heart & my head
i know it's only for pretend.