Unfinished Hours
a poem by Kerry Ann Wiley
The hours move forward, interrupted by brief, unspoken turns that linger longer than they should. The scenes arrive in sequence: dusk against glass, bodies passing through a tunnel, a kitchen under its lone light, a screen marking the late hour—
Dusk.
Window glass holding two silences—
interior hush, streetlight glare—
neither yielding.
A figure suspended in the pane,
blur where breath met cold.
Rush hour.
Metal, perfume, advertisements peeling.
Names swallowed by the tunnel.
Shoulders grazing,
no imprint left behind.
Midnight kitchen.
Bare bulb whitening the counter.
Chair pulled out—left angled.
Cardboard box in the closet.
Photographs bent at the smile.
Faces warmed by a flash.
1:17 a.m.
Blue light across the ceiling.
A message typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Left unsent.
A box layered in dust sits on the closet shelf, untouched.
Sheets cooling from one side only.
Day entering anyway.
Morning arrives.
What the hours left remains.
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