The Scapegoat

At ten past eight,
And for two undifferentiated whiles,
I vacillate,
Migraine beneath my occipital condyles,
In this passageway,
Uncertain of where I am in the sequence
Of my day.
AM or PM? I, whom, in their frequence,
Phantoms affirm,
First stamp one foot squarely off-gait on the floor,
Pivot, infirm,
And then stride as purposefully as before,
But the other way.