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Sunday, September 12, 2010



Tempus fugit,
So the ancient adage goes.
But it prompts me to say,
Hey Virgil, this is stupid stuff,
Because for me at home
All the clocks have stopped.

Then, when I come back, take another glance,
I realize from the timepiece's face
That I had been mistaken, my impression wrong,
There has been some movement,
The clock’s hands have apparently moved,
Yet far from time fleeting,
It drags, even the second hand --
Its motion becomes imperceptibly slow,
When you are gone and
Day and night must be faced alone.

And you write that soon
You return home, and note that
Less than three weeks remain,
Before your absence turns to memory,

And you say time really does fly!

But for me, whatever your consolation,
It does nothing to hasten the hours.
When I hear the clock,
The space between its regular tick-to-tock
Appears as if it were eternity, and your absence
-- Your face no longer upon your pillow,
Your body missing from your side of the bed --
You, you seem now to have been gone forever.

I know. I know. I exaggerate!
Yet I am not used to them,
These phenomena of your leaving,
Your terrible disappearances for the sake of business,
I may never become used to them.

You were reared different from me.

When you were still a child,
Your father was a frequent traveler;
You became habituated to the longing,
And you learned to practice
The ruse which told your inner self,
He will be home before you know it.

The electronic image of time,
Before me to the bottom-right
On the computer screen says 8:59PM.
It sits. It waits. My God, Darling!
My God! I hope you see the situation.

My condition is desperate.

The clock no longer runs.
For me here and languishing without you
Time stops.

I wish you were in my arms tonight.

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