10:55 pm

I want to snatch time by the neck,

command it to slow down,

to catch its breath.

I want to sit with the clocks,

have a meeting, call out the watches,

question the grandfathers:

How do you still tick and tock?

Time runs on space, they say.

It never stops, never hops,

never turns, never stirs.

I need a way, I say,

for my strands of gray

to never sprout another day,

for my bones to stay

as healthy as yesterday,

for my skin to reverse

its wrinkles, its sprinkles,

its unwanted pimples,

for my voice to sing

the lyrics of my birthdays,

for my eyes to display

the future of many shows to play,

for my dreams to become

true to my chamber’s drum,

for more sunsets and sunrises,

seasons and stories,

memories and echos,

for more moments,

more intimates,

slots in increments,

before the ground hugs me home.

The clocks tick,

the watches tock.

The grandfathers ding,

an instant swing.

You want more time?

Yes!

Time runs on space.

It never stops, never hops,

never turns, never stirs—

You said that already!

—But you can be its pilot,

its navigator,

its personal calculator.

I can? How?

By living.