Something is missing from my little world
Time passes so swiftly it’s almost absurd
As soon as my first daily job has been done
I’m already late starting on the next one.
Oh when will this treadmill let me catch my breath?
I’ve been working so hard, though young, I feel like death.
When finally homeward I wearily tread
It’s hardly worth sleeping, much less going to bed.
For changing to nightgown, brushing hair and teeth,
Wastes such precious time that I get no relief
And scrambling through supper and other routine
Makes senseless my efforts to rest or keep clean.
Even on the weekends, my work’s never done
As between friends and fam’ly, my time’s not my own.
Before I am ready it’s Monday alas,
And the whole wretched cycle starts over apace.
I take a breath, to clear my head
My stomach sings a hungry tune
My eyes are tired, my legs like lead
Freezing here beneath the moon.
I wish I could awake my mind
Some beauty I should love to find,
But closed-up shops
And ticking clocks
Are all the night will offer me.
Time slips by me like a drunken lover, giggling and giddy in the moon’s unearthly glow. The lines that are appearing, poetry, wrinkled as a newborn, aged as the hills. I laugh to see my face crinkle, this new mask that gloves me and cloaks me and hands me a cane. Perhaps I should go toward the opera house, after all, I do seem to be dressed for it?
Shadows whisper in the twilight as I stagger downward, stumbling on paths I used to know. Old friends desert me, then resurface, years later, surrounded by the spoils of their own adventures and their own spoilt offspring, clamouring for the future.
I digress, moving at tangents from topics I no longer care to discuss. Is it all over yet? So soon? I wonder at my own, comforting mortality, then see the plastic faces in the papers and shudder. Not my pipeline, frequency, whatchamacallit, wavelength? Not my style.
And raincoats let in water, wellingtons are worn in place of sandals, underwear becomes the latest craze and the world sighs as it flops over, turning itself inside-out in the name of fashion.
I mark the seasons, birthdays, holidays, nights when I sleep well, with a sort of passing satisfaction. Nothing matters so much it is lethal, no problem is unsolvable, and yet I slow down, grinding to a halt, paralysed by movement, breathless through static. And all of Time kisses my body in a quiet portico.
I am bathed in sand, asleep, awake? I lie alone and listen for each passing footfall, each second, each heartbreak, each life.