the dash between years.
its only function is to separate
the beginning from the end.
the middle is just the
waiting room of meaningless
magazines and children's tables.
there is no name, is there, for
waiting-room toys:
wooden beads on a twisting
and never-over path.
it's a short span of wire;
how does it never end.
while the child is waiting
he learns that the game is to
get all the beads from point a
to point b. they follow the wire
path and inevitably one or
two get left behind.
where gravity stops them,
that is their new end.
the first few times, he'll go back
for them.
smooth wood gliding.
then the doctor will call him back;
his own story, getting in the way
of things again.
his first check-up, her first
loose tooth.
his last loose tooth.
wisdom teeth, snatched from him.
firsts and lasts,
those are the only things
he'll remember of the middle.
and in the end,
only the first first
and the last last
the rest
—
first breath, last breath.
RIP