Playing in Time's Creek

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PLAYING IN TIME'S CREEK


Well, you get to attend more 

funerals, for one, where you attend more


intently to the way light illuminates

the rain-stained faces of the saints


present. And then it matters more 

what rain smells like than where


it came from, or who sent it, or why. 

This is the night's unbuttoning, a slow


slipping off of the backpack weighed down

with what they said we needed to know


for the test, t-shirt damp from hauling

the weight of all that knowing.


Philosophers quit studying

and test their luck at Candy Land


while children croon I told you so

from the top of the chocolate waterfall.


In time's creek one poet quits turning over days

to find the metaphor and says


with a shrug, well, it’s almost dinner

time and we haven’t net much; let’s love each other. 

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