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.