by Marshall Jamison
…of my Big Chief writing tablet begs me to fill its
empty lines
With words that mean this day has meant more
than other days to me
Because they do grow shorter as the years add up
And even an hour seems to run its course
more swiftly.
One hand of the clock hastening to catch
its look alike
Only to hang there together, suspended in time
For a brief moment before disengaging
and moving on.
It leaves this viewer somewhat short tempered,
Even nettled for having used the precious
moment
To observe and record time gone by,
Even wasted.
But was it?
