Delivery Service

Age is the final-touch trinket around time’s neck.

So when

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.

Likewise,

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,

 and

we’ll become an example of her.

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