Weird how it passes,
The nights and the mornings,
Ripple beneath my conscience.
I assume I want it to last,
But aren't I hoping it brings
Something that hasn't come yet?
I continue to look and examine,
My hands, still here resting,
They're a little shakier these days.
But I remember judging
And knowing even in my teens,
That I could never be a surgeon.
Luckily I instead work in cafes,
Late in the night drinking
Coffee and smiling at the staff.