Linda Eve Diamond

Time was up before me

as usual.

 

“Good morning, Time,” I say.

“You were in my dream again.”

 

Time rushes by me, dashing as always

in that classic old second-hand suit. 

 

“Slow down,” I half-heartedly plead,

(as if Time would ever pause for a dream). 

 

I go on telling Time (for what it’s worth) 

about a world where all the clocks slowed down…

 

“In the dream, Time, you were relaxed, generous and kind.

I traveled, studied French, satisfied every aching desire.”

 

Time laughs in deep, rhythmic chimes

then looks wearily at me and sighs.

 

We walk in awkward silence    

to the kitchen. 

               

The table’s a mess of unfinished poems, 
travel brochures and unchecked lists.

 

“Coffee?” I ask Time, 

taking down a second cup.

 

“No,” Time replies. 

                       “Jecours.”

“And what does that mean?” I ask,

with an exasperatedsigh.

                       

Time says,

          “I’m running out.” 

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