Within An Inch of Your Life

Any six-year-old can tell you
that time is an elusive creature
who slips and slides around you,
a mercury edged chameleon.

Morning comes with parental directives
that pulls you from bed
with reminders of the bus
and time is measured in the smoke of toast.

At school the teacher’s explanations
clutter your thinking
and mistakes happen
and time is measured in eraser crumbs.

And recess allows the freedom of spirit
and you run and scream
while friends play kickball
and time is measured in innings.

Boredom comes in the afternoon
and you pick off fur fluffs
from your favorite stuffed animal
and time is measured in the bald spot.

It takes an eternity to for seven birthdays to come
and tomorrow holds the promise of presents,
but the chameleon is shape shifting once again
and time is measured in dreams.

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The water is crystal clear
so you can see the desires
of a hundred people
thrown in the wishing fountain.

Two dimes kiss with the promise of love
and huddle together for comfort
while reflecting quarters flash like cameras
and boast the cost of fame.

But my little penny slowly drifting down
settling small upon the bottom
is distorting my dreams in the waves
and I wish I hadn’t thrown it.

There Were 37

There was a small spider that I easily squished,
but then another large bulb shaped one
came crawling out of a hole in the wall.

I called for my daughter to squish it
but she just lightly poked it with a pencil
only making it angry enough to bare its teeth at us.

The odd thought for me is not really the spider
and what it might represent in my dream,
but I seem to know that we are in our home.

A place where I know to look for my broom,
and surprised to NOT find it where I know it should be
in this home where I have never lived.

How can my mind create images and memories so clear
that I can tell the color and feel of the cloth on the table
and count the coarse hairs on the back of a spider?