We say, if only I had more time.
Like minutes can be bartered and bought,
Hoarded and heaped. We lament
Our lifespans, our 24-hour day, the second-
Clicking overseer. And then:
“Why not, I’ve got time to kill” — Gone
Is the frugality in favor of gluttony,
Luxury. Like a pompous game-hunter
We think we can catch our time, crunch
Time. Turn back the hands of time and call it
Conquered.
I take the dogs for a walk.
I tell myself “To fill time” (as if
Time were a bucket, a hole, an end —)
We round the last block toward home
And one of them stops: full-on
Front paws transformed into magnets
Pulled to the earth’s core. No amount
Of leash-jerking can wrench free this force.
“What a waste of time,” I mutter (time
As precious as water on a
Parched tongue, a friend, oxygen
To a drowning fish —)
I wait. The dog’s black nose quivers, tasting
The air. The sky is a cerulean blue, the sun
Just over the budding tree-line. It is the quiet
Of an early spring evening. A bird calls.
A distant car grumbles as it departs
To its next destination. The trees near me
Start a soft brushing sound, as a light wind
Rubs their branches close. A caress.
I look back to my dog, whose dark brown eyes
Meet mine as if to say, “Well?”
I smile.
—
Mary McAfoose lives and works in Seattle, Washington, on the unceded ancestral lands of the Coast Salish people. She holds a degree in electrical engineering, and when not working corporate tech jobs, she enjoys writing relatable poetry, reading, and playing videogames.
