Age is the final-touch trinket around time’s neck.
I sowed heartaches into cross-stich patterns
to hang up in retirement homes
she came for me.
She was dressed in notches.
I wanted to tell her how long
I observed poetry from door hinges
while the windowsills voiced secrets about the school
kids walking home from school.
She spoke in Morse-Code like ticks so I never deciphered what she meant.
We laughed when we passed playgrounds.
Time, sprinkled moments over sugar-racing sneakers
and planted laughter into what would become adolescence.
Here, I realized that time had a delivery service.
Time wasn’t always punctual.
She crossed abandoned homes and families who fell into
cracked concrete filled with quicksand where they would be drained
into time’s hourglass. She never stopped for them.
time had favorites.
Here, she became a decoration to their accomplishments
All the same,
the consignment of inevitability
traveled linear for everyone.
Time had a way to her,
we’ll become an example of her.