Mania

[Elizazile]

I wake, a waitress
Balancing five or six plates,
Which I refuse to set down,
And carry table to table instead,
Thrilled to be put to work.

All aflutter for weeks now
I can't quite say
That this feels good anymore
Just that slowing down 
wouldn't;
Would be a puddle of milk
Spilled and seeping,
Threatening to down 
My tower of tenuous tomorrows.

I no longer feel my center
But see myself, the center
Of a web of glass entanglements
Sustained by never glancing away, 
Shattered by a deep breath