Forever, It Appears

I wake and find it’s day again.

It happens every time.

It makes no difference if I crush

the day between my hands—

or wring or drop or squish the day

as if it were the frog,

the frog bath sponge instinctively

returns to its set shape—

I watch its simple eyes, so soft,

reopening like hours—

forever, it appears, expecting

to be taken care of.