Time passes by the window. A grackle
carries a minute to the palm tree
across the street, the lady who walks past each day
kicks a few more along the pavement
and the cats in the yard
chase half an hour away
as if it had wings. The neighbor who strolls
block after block with his old
and faithful dog
tucks a hour into his pocket
to save for when he has something urgent to do.
A car arrives home in its driveway
with seconds streaming from its exhaust pipe
and a plane overhead
sweeps half a day aside
in its hurry to reach wherever it is bound for.
The kitchen clock, meanwhile,
counts the seconds carefully
and keeps them in paper rolls
with the pennies, stopping occasionally
to add up how long it has been: twenty-six days
already filed away as time
with loose wheels, fish-tailing
its way into history.
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