Rediscovering poems and stories written 20 years ago makes me both cringe and smile. This was always a favorite:
Silent they wait,
His and mine.
Their hands circle steadily, counting each moment
When we are two,
Perched on the nightstand, with arms outstretched,
They see to be waiting to fly
Far from us.
The riddle of the Sphinx counts it all out,
From four to two to three—
The equation of a life, of our lives—
Crawling and walking and hobbling through Time.
And half-crazed scientists in some distant town
Have made time toe the line;
selling sections of it off, chunk by chunk.
I’ve got my watch and he’s got his,
But tonight they will fly
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