March On

You walk around the apartment, back bent, eyes squinting. Try gathering whatever crumbs of hope spilled out, were left over, survived the dark months of winter, collect them to see if it's enough to make a breath. It is March now, you whisper, anxiously staring out at the 5 PM skies to see them change, anxiously counting minutes and daffodil bulbs and pennies in the street, you've been coming up short lately, been buying your survival on layaway but
it is March now
and soon you will be a pocketful of money

soon your lungs will remember how
to breathe on their own.