untitled

Let’s pretend
The clocks
Aren’t right -
Time has gotten so late
that the hands
Have grown into arms.

Age is – and has never
Been a factor.

There is a leaf
For every head
And an upright palm,
Smart for always
Refusing to make a fist.

I have no grudge
And have only forgotten
(recently)
how to hold one.

Smile,
simple tart
and the world
is your benign
crust
(a foodie
is to a trekkie
as space is
to a just dessert).

In the coming months
When the fairy-dust
Has been whisked from your pages
And the faintly red hair
Is pulled from the roots (and
Matching carpet
Migrates from the pouch)
You’ll thank me for not spoiling
The calculations of the most overblown
ceremony. When you die alone
I’ll come along
giving the appropriate,
and proper (unless you prefer
A proffer) stage-direction
And beg the prefect
For a courtesy-pass
to the defect:
Moment-by-moment.



-jim hill (10-22-09)