I used to beat time 
on the steering wheel.
Always restless, never still.
Foot pumping, head jerking,
snapping and tapping
and clicking my ring
against the gearshift knob.

Until I finally 
accepted their drug.

I don't do that now.

I don't disappear
for a week at a time,
or refuse to answer my phone.

I'm not so restless.
I smoke less.
I don't sit on couches
with my legs tucked under me
like a girl's, and
pull on my knees.

I don't ramble when I talk,
or at least not so much.
But I still tell dumb jokes
and I still wish I were dead.

They did the best they could.

But I'm still planning.  Planning
to take my final bow in a thicket,
pull the curtain in a bower,
and beat time my own sweet way
at a carefully chosen hour.

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