Count
Each day I count my tomatoes,
check to see a change from green
When I walk up and down hills
my watch counts my steps, my pulse
rate, distance in miles, time—
It keeps a record of my longest walk,
my speed—even calories used
If I count those times,
I let myself down—an errant word,
hyperbole, a reconstructed story
with missing parts, and the times I
looked away, invisible to myself—
too busy to count the hollow
places in need of repair
