Across the Time
Jetlags cripple, I wheel my carry-on
to reception, where a basket stupifies
travelers with the scent of overripe pears.
Seen to my room, I draw the blinds
on the zenith of someone elses afternoon.
Behind my brow, the propeller stutters,
and these limbs, lame with times duplicity,
betray a worn-out battery. Jettisoned west,
stuffed with staggered airline meals,
my body is an hourglass, struggling to cinch
the girdle on a few remaining grains.
I run like slow water across the sheets,
molten as Dalis watch. At 8, it wearies me
to see the stars emerge, and Im reminded
of a snowless winter, light years ago,
when I loved a man too young for me.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Sarah
would be pleased to hear