Names etched deeply into the wall reflect backwards through time.
Grasping for permanence we run so quickly out of time.
Immaculately cut green grass rises in a hill to the razor lined fences.
Rusting license plates mark the names of those done doing time.
Yesterday a minute sat bedside me and we spoke for a few seconds.
I barely finished looking into her eyes and we were out of time.
Sometimes you can hear the light crackle and hum to the chair.
The whole world dims and moves a little slower for a time.
On February 6, 1985 I wrote, “Carl was here.”
I expect that one day it will be my time.