A Tuesday Morning in Middle Age

The mind sheds fragments of thought. Disjointed. Threads pulled from a fabric. Why can I never find the pencil chapstick that falls to the bottom of my purse?

I am coming apart falling to pieces sectioning like the tangerine that limply peels away cracks and dries.

Tell me what was I doing? North South

East West splinter endlessly.

I carried the scissors mindlessly to the other side of the house put them down and now cannot find them again.

Irritation rises in the throat.

Thoughts sprint in opposite directions like a room of toddlers.

I am losing my unity losing the clarity of youth.

Help me, I say to the cat.

Caffeine fails its mission only speeding up the disintegration. What was I saying and where was I going?

Something has been lost but I can’t remember what it is.

My attention scattered like children’s socks on the bedroom carpet.

The color of exasperation is a dull red with raw edges.

I was thinking that there is never enough time for sleep. When did girlhood bid farewell and this tired woman move in?