Passenger

Tuesday feels like every day, so today is every Tuesday.
This goddamn day won’t goddamn change
my going back and forth between the sure and doubt,
the front door opening and closing, the backdoor slamming,
mosquito screen folding over like a sagging flag,
bathroom faucet always dripping, water always dropping
to the rusted band around the drain,
pant legs always creasing, buttons fast unbuttoning,
shirts wrinkling like they drink rain.
The raised marks on my wristwatch stopped speaking minutes.
They say, instead, it’s sooner or never
and this living you’re making isn’t buying you anything.
Not a new watch or a new shoe, a used car, a day off,
not a ticket to a place where you’ll never arrive.
When this long day ends I’ll leave my purse to find
a wallet flat inside, its billfold stuffed with time.