Time hovers by with little to clasp
between its silvery veins, pushes past
the flocks of busy bees
in desperate need of a turtle
paced day. It drifts through the clumps
of flamingos that stretch
through their lives, begging time
to catch them in the wind.
Time has no agenda.
It gives the playing
schoolgirl a slow jump rope
filled childhood
and the parent
a fast-car-ride-full-of-screaming-kids
adulthood. Be wary
of its pull, dragging you past the lights
in a blur, mixing your greens, reds, and yellows
into a grey mesh of inseparable office meetings
and home cooked lasagnas,
or the tiresome push of customer
after customer and hours
of stocking shelves with globs
of dog toys and shampoo.
Time flutters willingly
through the crowds
touching pimpled noses
and squinting eyes;
it grazes the graying hair
and the crinkled crow’s feet.
Time heaves by the whites of dentures
and the folds of skin.
Time has no judgment,
no beginning or end.


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