Time’s Up
 
He spends his days sorting pieces from bits.
She spends hers on what her mother calls dribs
and drabs.  Time does not fly, it gulps oxygen
and climbs on a shuttle attached to a rocket.
He had big dreams.   She  wanted the world
on a string.  Instead, he bores with this board
or that, and she directs traffic between selling,
playdates. and the right weddings and mitzvahs.
They wave to each other from their cars.
Blackberry reminders to buy lettuce or gas
and get Furball fixed.  Oh, and they forgot
to make an appointment to make a kid.
Maybe do something with the one we got.
Won’t always be busy, they tell themselves
as the phone rings when they are making love.
Gotta get ahead, gotta get ahead, gotta go,
gotta get, gotta run, gotta show, gotta rack
up those greenbacks, gotta hit the line,  gotta
heat-wash-pump-flex-order-floss, then dash..
Got charts to chart and posts to post.
Gotta buy, gotta shop, gotta buy.  Gotta
kiss another ass, gotta blog about a pass.
Migraine now and then or ulcer or affair
just part of the price.   Like overhead.  Like tax.
Someday they will do Hawaii together,
or St. Barts.  Someday they will linger
over a couple Mai Tais or fro-yos and lattes.
Someday he will look into her eyes, and she
will look back.  Been too long, both text
as they rush to suit up for committees
each heads.  Too young to die, too old
to ask why, the he in him disappears, and the she
in her.   Just shells of themselves.  Brrrrrrrrrrrr.

     

                      (c) Phyllis Jean Green, 2007

                          [A l l   R ights  Reserved]