And my hands

Possessed 

by a deep-rooted fear,

the seconds turn into minutes and tick away, 

drifting through my fingers 

like sand 

into a quickly accumulated pile 

of lost time 

that cannot be sorted through, 

no way to retrieve 

even one

And

my carefully constructed plan 

cracks 

and little pieces 

of glass collect

at my feet as I run, 

cutting deeper and deeper 

and I can't do it, 

I can't find the train, the car, the hotel, 

I'm stuck 

riding to the wrong part of Connecticut, 

driving on an old highway through Ann Arbor, 

jumping a turnstile in Paris

because I don't have enough money 

to get all the way to the outskirts 

because it's not a normal metro price

And

I'm drenched in sweat 

in my little dress 

with now drooping polka dots, 

running circles around Washington Square Park 

looking for a building 

tucked away 

from the normal eye

housing people like me who aren't lost

and are waiting for me 

if only I can catch my breath

and calm my shaking hands, 

my body weakened by the effort 

to get it right

And

I find solace in people 

willing to help, 

who encourage me to run like the wind 

to the next escalator 

that will take me a floor down 

to people with the answers, 

but even they doubt themselves 

and I have to hope and trust 

that my fear is misplaced, 

my anxiety all wrong, 

there is nothing to worry over 

because even if I miss the train

I can go home and those who love me 

will continue to love me, 

even the one disappointed 

by my anxiety, 

and I am safe, 

and all is well

And

my hands won't stop shaking.