Anticipation

My brain is running like a sugar high
times ten plus an espresso;
the seat belt too tight
around my hamburger-and-fries stretched stomach.

My hyperactive consciousness
ricochets off the
soft cranial folds of my mind
like five-year-old boys
on a moon bounce at the fair.
My eyes are half-dollars
(the silver kind),
my lips pressed together,
to dam the waterfall of anxious chatter
threatening to burst out.

Seconds take minutes,
minutes take hours,
this hour is at least a day long
(I would know, I'm counting).