tenth term

there’s a game where kids only live
ten years, where they watch
their tattoos drain from red to black
before they die.
sometimes i think i’ll get one, frozen forever in
tenth term.
it’s not like it’s not already there; it’s just
below my skin, subcutaneously etched.
how fast the color’s draining may well be known,
but not to me.
the crack of knee with grocery heave,
or glimpse of silver in a mirror passing,
remind me that water flows one-way, but the delta
feels far off. i can diminish
the west with the pixel swipe or glass of wine, but i am still aboard,
and i don’t know our speed.
friend, i hear you at the door,
don’t wait — come in, i’ll make us
curry and rice. tenth term
may be tomorrow.