Tracy Simmons

thirty-two repetitions

i didn’t worry for myself but 
for my mother
who took each morning bus 
and breathed the same air 
that housed the voice of the man who 
harassed her
for the coworker who took 
each workday like a prescription 
for the man i knew in college who 
shared his younger sister’s artwork 
and wondered aloud when he’d see her again 
 
realizing i’d not spoken to him in four years

a psychologist i’d known told me thirty seconds to
three minutes could not
assume the length of a nightmare
my physics teacher years before said time is relative
i wondered how many more people 
could fit the rest of their life into these four years

i thought of the older man crying in the park and 
wondered if by some diminishment of psychic distance 
he saw what i see right now