Jitters and Plans

I stand in the kitchen all jitters and plans.
Cash boxes. Pillow cases. Coat pockets.
No real protection.
In my head it has already been done.
My fingers trace back the dust.
A thin trail of existence.
I am lines of ink.
Nothing more.
I used to hang bells on the door handle. To know when.
Now I think I should hang them from my lips.
It is an uneasy dance with Jesus and Alice.
A stumble and a fall.
Words mixed up.
No swirling cloud of grace.
My breath thumps in my ears. Regretfully. Necessarily.
And I just can’t see where I am.
A pencil echoes in the empty room. Tapping on the paper.
Clickety-click beetle’s leg.
All such a waste you fool.

And the air. It smells funny.
Too real.