Dribs an'  Drabs. . .

. . .my mother-in-law called them.

Bits-and-pieces, Brit friends groan.

However we choose to label them,

byte-happy mites creep up and steal

unguarded slivers and chunks of time

and attention. We get the leftovers.

Equivalent of a dab of cold potatoes

and a wedge of leather once meatloaf.

(Those iffy beans we meant to toss

lie in wait somewhere in back.)

To me, they represent the waste

we scatter like chicken bones

or name-your-price flea-market fluff.

Time when we could have created.

Life is bad enough about piecemealing

empty calories onto our plates.

But I have a plan to begin saving time

– er – after I take five, I mean.

(c) Phyllis Jean Green, October, 2003

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