So that's when she told me, 'I've got nothing
but Time on my hands. Well, maybe I want
my hands on Time.'
It made me think of aging, what it has to do
with running late. It made me think of child-
hood, what it had to do with fashionably late.
It made me think of mid-life crisis,
what it always had to do with Time
That's when it hit me. I have Time on my hands
like the World on my shoulders. I want my hands
on Time, too. They're always running late,
healing everything, waiting
to age in a rocking chair.
The clock's hands were always disproportionate,
but I caressed them both in mine, & I swung Time
around until we were both dizzy, I stopped;
Like a pen drop in dead silence, & I splashed
in Old Man River, I dove to the bottom,
I took a drink from the Fountain of Youth,
I sipped it like I have sipped scalding coffee
before exam crams in adolescence, as I never have
before as mature adults in coffee shops, or as I would,
waiting to die, child-like, in my rocking chair.