Four Minutes and a Fist Full of Water

I used to count the seconds
between the time that the old dry feel hit my lips
and the time that my brain felt old and familiar again
cracked as an Idaho summer.

I would sit on the couch with the music on
Chopin maybe, I do like him,
He’s soothing and full of a complex disquiet,
something that I feel in myself,
whether it’s there or not, I can’t say.
the sound of the piano slowly crawling inside of me
as I waved my hand slowly and counted

1…2…3…
1…2…3…
1…2…3…
1…2…3…

waiting for the minutes to pass
I start a simple mathematical thought
1 fl.oz./min. for 6 min. but the hit happens @ 4
the last 2 min. feel softer
no butter undertones,
the toasted notes fade and the brain slips into
a familiar dull pattern of pulsing key strokes

Chopin seems to be playing his tune on my thigh
the intimacy of music transcending time

then the whispers begin,
the process of hands to pen to paper
or of finger pads to keyboard to internet,

They say, “your world, it awaits you.”

They whisper, “The infinite creativity
that sits in front of you is lost in the
moments that you do not take it.”

And I reach through the air,
brushing the mess of Chopin’s mop,

I grab at a fistful of water.