Filling the Hours (Poetry)

I have to fill the soft, empty pockets of the day with something,
pad them with a small sense of purpose puffed up to fit,
or they become chasms too wide to climb across -
yawning, ever-deeper, with no bridge between them,
so leave me stranded, on the edge and peering down.

All that space - all that time - and nothing but air and shadows -
ghostly pigeon holes imagined, row on row;
one for every hour, carved from sighs and waiting for a thought;
a stray idea to lift its head and stir its wings -
that dark dot on the horizon to find its way back home.