After After
After after, there is
always more, another
after and another
sewn together, leaving
like the train trailing
behind the bride's
wedding gown and
dragging across carpet,
then tile, pavement,
and grass and eventually,
car upholstery.
Childhood trains us
to expect the great ocean
of time around us,
endless, and always more
of it rolling in and away.
A couple of decades
in, and we know scarcity,
know that birthdays
grow stronger and faster,
are tireless sprinters
who find us and lap us.
There will always be
another and a next
and an after, even if we
are unable to know about it.
Follow Hannah Stephenson on Twitter: www.twitter.com/thestorialist
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