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.