Life sweeps me headlong down the road
called “Hurry Up” — to wherever it goes —
making me show how
many full plates I can juggle all at once over
the squares on my calendar,
where every hour
becomes a place to glue
fragments of broken plates
onto a crowded mosaic
into which the next caller
can insert himself
between the tiles.
Shall I dance to the cell phone song
that summons me yet again?
There’s a button labeled “OFF.”