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21:59,
Time Flies
Tempus
fugit,
So
the ancient adage goes.
But
it prompts me to say,
Hey
Virgil, this is stupid stuff,
Because
for me at home alone
The
clock has stopped.
Then,
when I take another glance,
I
realize from the timepiece's face
That
I had been mistaken, my impression wrong.
There
has been some activity.
The
clock’s hands have apparently moved.
Yet
far from time fleeting,
The
hours drag, even the second hand --
Its
motion becomes imperceptibly slow,
When
you are gone and
Day
and night must be faced alone.
And
you write to me and say that before long
You
will return home. You declare that
Less
than three weeks remain,
Soon,
you add, your absence today turns to memory,
And
confidently profess, “time really does fly!”
But
for me, however you may try to comfort me,
Your
consolation, it does nothing to hasten the hours!
When
I hear the clock, note the spaces
Between
its regular tick-to-tock, those intervals,
They
appear as if they 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. You suppose that I exaggerate!
Yet
I am not acclimated to them,
These
phenomena of your leaving,
Your
terrible disappearances for the sake of business,
These
separations, 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 had told your inner self that
He
will be home before you know it.
I
can hear you and your mother practicing the phrase,
When
dad was gone and you two sat at home alone,
“Oh
the days go by so fast!”
The
electronic image of time before me
(to
the bottom-right on the computer screen)
Its
numbers read 21:59.
It
sits. It waits. Woman, Darling!
Woman!
Can't you see what you have done to me!
My
condition is desperate.
The
clock no longer runs.
For
me here languishing without you
Time
stops, and my life suspended,
My
daydreaming becomes nightmare.
The
universe endlessly expanding,
With
its boundary beacons actually accelerating,
Points
of light at outermost fabric of space/time,
Increasing
speed, faster and faster, and distancing apart,
Separately
hastening from one star-light point to another,
All
of them at once farther and father from the other,
Each
spot, incredible luminosity endlessly hurling,
At
quickening pace, ever hurrying and hurrying,
Scurrying
to extend, stretching
The
cosmos, picking up speed at the edge of empty space,
How
would I ever hope to expect the bright of your eyes
To
bridge the black night,
Where
time slips into nothingness,
And
the law of gravity no longer applies,
Every
principle of attraction confounded.
Me
having seen your face in every flower,
My
longing here for you
Mean
nothing when all spheres turn to final ice,
All
moment gone, all hope forlorn
The
electronic numbers of my computer clock,
Still
sit here and read 21:59.
