Stutter

Some days all you can do is put the rice on,
trust the rest will come, lace your running shoes
just twenty minutes, just. Push yourself through
with a stopwatch. Some days you’ll coax
fear out the window with nothing but a wooden spoon
and some honey, the wasp slow to take
and you wanting to hit it as hard as you can
to stop the live radio feed in your head--
the voice that says I’ve lost a few pounds,
my pants fit again, that’s something,
but the next cheque’s already spent, can’t
even brown bag it on my front porch, every penny’s flipped,
job boards the new pack-a-day habit–-
your arm swings back, your face twists,
but something in you asks to be merciful.
So it continues.
The wasp stutters against the glass.