Pigeons descend on me and take
minutes away, seed by seed, before I reach
for more to share and give away.
I may be an amateur poet and not
the real thing -- Time is my excuse:
Everyone takes minutes and I gladly share.
A mess of minutes disappear in seconds
until I'm left with zero. No time for myself.
So I steal away; steal them back:
Forty-five minutes before the sun and kiddos wake up;
20 minutes before I'm called into the kitchen;
Ten minutes in between loads of laundry.
It's not the best system, but it's what I have:
a condensed time frame to get my art out.
No time to listen to my soul;
No time to still myself and watch
for the words, not wait, but sit and watch
when no one is looking.
1 comment:
I like this poem, but offering unsolicited editorial advice, I'd spell "Twenty" for consistency.
Post a Comment