Days crack open like eggs over frying pans,

they leak into the future like the past had hands

large enough to cup them

and carry them out like the great plans

you can’t see through,

but must be seen through to the end.

We’re spending our lives knowing only

that something needs to be handed down,

something we can be proud of

rather than what we’ve already left behind.

This legacy of hand-me-downs

that only begin to fit

the moment we’ve begun to grow out of them.


About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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