Time was up before me
“Good morning, Time,” I say.
“You were in my dream again.”
Time rushes by me, dashing as always
in that classic old second-hand suit.
“Slow down,” I half-heartedly plead,
(as if Time would ever pause for a dream).
I go on telling Time (for what it’s worth)
about a world where all the clocks slowed down…
“In the dream, Time, you were relaxed, generous and kind.
I traveled, studied French, satisfied every aching desire.”
Time laughs in deep, rhythmic chimes
then looks wearily at me and sighs.
We walk in awkward silence
to the kitchen.
The table’s a mess of unfinished poems,
travel brochures and unchecked lists.
“Coffee?” I ask Time,
taking down a second cup.
“No,” Time replies.
“And what does that mean?” I ask,
with an exasperated sigh.
“I’m running out.”