Sophia Vesely

Those ducklings we saw that afternoon in the park, small and orderly as they scuttled along behind the quacking leader? Remember their racket? They are grown now, and waddle in a cluster.

The sunburned man with the crinkled forehead and paint-splattered hat who claimed his stake on our bench? He’s quite bitter now. Twelve times, he’s scoffed at me. Content only once.

Dinner plates shattered: two, nails clipped: five, eyebrows plucked: six, ashes scattered: one, pimples popped: eight, books started: ten, shoe laces tied: twenty-seven. Hearts broken, just the one. Lines concocted, eighteen. I’ve detected so many ways to reckon the time, and yet I await you still.