time on our hands
We’re on a blind date, skipping school –
To Canada, to Mexico, to Florida on a plane.
Lost on the opposite side of the country, then back to Washington, DC.
This is the hour when swimming in the ocean
becomes the same thing as crying yourself to sleep.
We play cops and robbers like we’re colored with crayons and recently
seen riding tortoises at the National Zoo. Do I sing karaoke
enough? I Pay for my meals and gas with coins only. From now on I wear a mask
to work. You do something you told yourself you wouldn’t.
The prank phone calls I made twenty years ago are being returned.
Go ahead and laugh until some kind of beverage comes out of your nose.
Now we’re in Buffalo — close your eyes and catch a snowflake on your tongue.
The End. On to the final dance in the rain,
the final letter to Santa Claus and the last kisses under the mistletoe.
No more time to learn how to scuba dive, ice skate, find the right nickname.
No more movies, bubbles or colored lights.
The sun will rise again, but not for someone I care about
whose favorite drink I can’t remember nor mother’s maiden name.
How much do you love your job? What is the meaning of this body piercing?
Where did your furniture come from and where is your favorite
vacation spot? I want to understand you. Ever been to Africa?
Ever eaten a cookie for dinner?
My favorite salad, favorite number, favorite pie, favorite movie
written on a torn corner of a page of the Book of Common Prayer, folded 17 times.
I realize that I’ve been in traffic accidents.
I realize that I left something under my chair when I was eight years old.
I remember learning how to take a shower. I remember body wash.
Hurry! Your favorite toothpaste may be on sale
before the baby is born.
What should we do to relax?
I know you can’t see
even one minute into the future
but in ten years we will be happy.
