On
the Difference a Single Minute Can Make
I'm
finding myself
forever late
and running a frantic catch-up
to every place
I need to be:
The bus booting off
as I stretch my waving arms
to flag it down;
The opening credits rolling
as I scramble for my seat,
popcorn spilling
from its bag;
Missing the girl I would have met—
and married—
had I seen her seconds sooner,
BEFORE a line of people
blocked our path,
leaving us as strangers,
our eyes to never lock.
I lost out
on a stellar career
because I didn't see the want ad
in the paper—
the listing stamped for me
under the arm
of another seeker,
who snagged the final copy
of the city's daily news
just a breath-and-a-half before.
I want to ask my mother
why she couldn't birth me faster,
why she hadn't heeded
the contractions
just as soon as they were felt,
without delay,
pushed an extra bit harder
when my head was popping out,
that additional minute of life,
that little head start,
giving me adequate time to stroll
to that bus stop down the street,
smell some flowers along the way,
tell a girl I think she's pretty,
if we can meet for a funny movie
when my day at the office is done.
Free Verse
October Rose
the
solitary rose in my garden,
a harvest holdover or belated bloom
that's risen when the others have died.
It has none to compete for attention,
isn't lost in a sea of red.
I ponder its predicament,
think of it as lonely,
regretting it hadn't blossomed sooner
when the buzz of flying insects
were droning their affection.
I'll water it in the evening,
as stars speck the sky in Autumn's cool.
I'll sing it to sleep
as I retire,
pray for grace
should the frost strike swift.
