March

Palpitations in the shower
and my hands shake
spreading butter
on the burnt toast.
Here are my legs
pooling into my shoes
across the dim 
linoleum.

Sometimes trains
get stuck
or even lost,
because somebody fell
asleep on the job
switching levers.
And the conductor of
my brain is one of them.

There are railcars full of
lost letters and unraveling
sweater ends
somewhere,
but directing trains backwards
wasn't anyone's forte.

So my hands
trace letters that
don't exist yet
and out the window
little green stalks
start to grow
into March.