I don't remember when
I started thinking about time
and what it meant to my life.
It had something to do
with me not being late to school.
Hands locked behind, time somehow grew.
Now it's wearing another face,
unmasked to show me
what it's done to mine.
Time is a serious author of plays
adding lines to the story of skin.
My life's novel is now a phrase.
What used to seem months is now days.
It plays with me, that impatient child,
tugs my sleeve and whines,
me, the distracted parent with pet
that wants in or out of the door.
The sun just rose? Now it's set.
I think it is getting faster.
If those statisticians are right
I'm past the half-way mark
on my way to a grave mortality,
I suddenly feel quite alone.
That thought smacks of finality
Between that first breath and last,
what's this all about,
this get up, work, lie down, eat, sleep
march toward the unknown?
What a hunger, this thing called time.
Here - chew on this beat-up old bone.