The Hum of Imagined Bees
       

Some non-stop motor
                        scarcely audible,
maybe teeth grinding at night
            or a rhythmic foot tapping the air—
but where does it want to go?
Often I get no further
than the kitchen table, water trembling
                        in the glass I hold.

Then just when I've learned
to hold my balance,
                        lean away from
the pull as I turn corners—the days
speed up, though I'm not yet
                        near the destination,
not even closer, only whirling—
            rear tires stuck in the snow,

and all along the second hand
turning on my watch,
                        a ready-or-not clicking
no one else can hear—
            the train, too, keeps going.
So it's the wheels as I try to fall asleep—
the trundling on the track
            comes through the pillow.

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Copyright © 2011 Jane O. Wayne All rights reserved
from The Other Place You Live
Mayapple Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission