My fingers itch for Bach, so I chop vegetables instead
The onions sting my eyes, and the potatoes strain my wrist.
But the pain fills the hours, in this chrome kitchen and sterile apartment.
I do not mind being secondary to squash and legal briefs,
and wives wrapped in Chanel and ermine.
This, I do not mind, for I never wanted to be them.
I only want to be here, in the days I have remaining.
So I cannot be distracted by Bach, for once I start, I cannot stop.
In every minute, every second I have left, I wait for him.
*
Sarah Daly is an American writer whose fiction, poetry, and drama have appeared in fourteen literary journals including The Olivetree Review, Blue Lake Review, Fixator Press, and Carmina Magazine.
