Postponing Myself

I keep finding my reflection in glass, I never meant to stare into. It wears the same tired face. The same work shirt. The same tomorrow folded neatly into yesterday’s pocket. Each morning, I hang my next shift on the hook by the door And leave before it has the chance to ask any more of me. The time clock knows my fingerprints better than my own ambitions. The day asks nothing of me except that I return it a little quieter than before. I spend so much of myself keeping the lights on that I forget I once wanted to build a fire. When evening comes, life and I share the same bench. We both stare at the cracks in the pavement Waiting for one of us to say ‘this can’t be all there is.’ I always believed the road would widen eventually:  that somewhere ahead, the version of me I’d been carrying would finally catch up. Instead, I’ve become fluent in postponing myself.