Between Nine and Ten in the Morning
At five years old I had begun
to practice hiding.
Someone kind would close her eyes
and count to ten, each number
a soft crack of the whip.
As I darted herringbone
I would hear nine called,
followed by a miraculous phenomenon
wherein time
appeared to
stretch.
Nine and a half,
nine and three quarters,
nine and infinitely dissected infinities.
I hid well.
This morning, the sun slices
through window dressing,
carrying no kindness in its whip.
I am found
before I am ready.