In My Mother’s Apartment

From the window,
where I lay on the davenport
in my mother’s apartment,
I watch as the car headlights
continue down the glassy road
one after another, in a straight line,
until I find myself pondering
how the light stretches out like it does,
until it dissipates into the night.

 
My mother’s soft breathing
heard from the bedroom
where she sleeps,
and how the ticking of time
from the wall clock above me
reminds me of how much
time and light are alike,
and how quickly it manages to reach
the eye until fades to memory. 

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