Ah, time, is there ever enough of it

when we splice it up like this—

numbered minutes, days, eons

—diced like veggies for a stir fry,  

its only sauce anxiety and sweat?

Just what you’d expect from conmen

hawking time-is-money fraud deals,

time-shares at the shore, a first-class

pass through purgatory, ecstasy.

It’s a ball, see? A globe. You can

bounce it, be anywhere on it,

your first shoes are there beside

your latest déjà vu of death.

We wander together into the palliative.