Let me sit quietly
And dwell
In thought
In turn
In spirit
Let the solace be my comfort
Let stillness wrap me like cloth
Tuck me away
Encase me
The humidity of silence
Bare against skin and bone
Holding me in perfect concentration
Of futures
And paths
And consequence

The almost holy place
Where all disturbance ceases
As sounds dissipate
And I’m left alone to my thoughts
Slithering cautiously in and out
My mind
My nerves
My veins

Leave me lay quietly to dwell

I am a number.
A first try,
A dozenth time,
A score,
By which I am remembered.

I’m told to fit a figure.
A size,
A length,
A measurable point,
Against which I am deemed average.

My mind, though, is weary of digits
That budget me,
Worth me,
Design me,
So that I am an equation
And as such can be figured, estimated, predicted.

Even my socks are numbered and matched,
To avoid a waste of counted seconds,
Precious as they are,
Precisely as they’re followed.

Dare we lose a moment
On account of a statistic,
On an investment?
We are all just numbers after all.
Falling orderly in line,
Ranked and placed accordingly,
Waiting to be counted off,
By tries,
And times,
And scores.