I hear him taking

the practice swings now,
the instrument whistling through
the quiet air in easy,
casual rhythm,
a constant smile (of course)
on his preternaturally happy
face
as he looks at me
with professional interest.
I look at him and wonder
what tricks he has up his
baggy sleeves.
Will it be a blinding white
explosion in my head,
a knife to the sternum,
a long, crawling, painful descent,
or a bolt from the blue in the
form of an 18 wheeler?
Some days he seems a friend.
Others he's just there.
But today I've got better things
to do than sit and watch
the sand run out.
So let him take all the swings
he wants.
Only one will count
and I can't really be bothered
with it
now.