Time
Flying
doesn't begin to describe
what happens to it
More like
disintegrate, evaporate, eviscerate
My lack of it
cuts me
like the sharpest of knives
in my drawer
The one I use for carrots
or steak
Little pieces of it
get swept into the dust bin
tossed away
before I know they're gone
Panicked
I rummage through trash
hoping to find a morsel
I can still put to good use
Elated
I grab scraps -
ten minutes here
fifteen there
Could it be I've found
one hour
soggy and tattered
amidst the rubble?
Clutching this treasure
this time of my own,
I weep
Then throw wide the door
and
fly
for more timely verse, go here