One Word

“It’s your f****n' time,’
he says, and he says it
with passion,
while his words
hover in the air,
I take a drag,
recite all of my
possessions in my head,
what I have in me,
sometimes is so
difficult to see.
I lived my life
in a fog, feeling my way
through some hate,
with some ambition
but too late,
is it too late?
another drink perhaps
and then I can start again,
be born again
because words have their
meanings, there is nothing
that is more innate
and time has its seasons.
for now
I’ll just wait, wait it out
until all that is left
is one.