The Pressure of Time

I feel like time is slipping away sometimes. Like the days that I see old friends and family and then the time is gone and I'm into another day. The days bleed into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. The seasons change and people who were once close become strange. It seems the more we try to hold onto "the times," the harder it is when they go away. I think sometimes people have kids in order to try to somehow solidify time, in that you have these children who are part of you, starting life anew. Like somehow you can live again, refreshed, through someone else's brand new childhood. But make no mistake; it is not yours but theirs. To kiss the soft lips of youth again and feel the freshness of the day. As though time was mine. Just this week a couple friends, both bringing up children, told me that though the technical work day has ended, it is as though, the world at home feeding, bathing and putting these children to bed is a whole other world, a whole other work day. Both these friends told me that they dip into their very scarce well of time to take just a little for themselves at the very final end of the day, for if they didn't, they would not have any time at all. But they do capture it. It takes work to capture some time for yourself. I often lay awake wondering if I am wasting my time. I make vows to try to soak all the rest up. I get lost sometimes and have to make up time. I find myself just watching time. I find myself trying to salvage the remains of my time. I get confused about how I lost time. I try to manage my time but end up giving others my time. Even in my dreams I slipstream through time. I think we need a chance to just be ourselves, maybe with some friends, lovers, coworkers, but mostly alone. Then we can say we own time. That, we are time. We can just be the moment, fully there, without words.

Finding in your jacket a crumpled 20 and a dime. To the edge of your glass, add a slice of lime. Tomorrow and tomorrow goes the rhyme but if you are here in the moment, you'll have plenty of time.

3am Diner

hot grease heat blows through the vents,
phones ring and waitresses shout the early bird orders,
cooks bark back in thick loud french,
cash registers beep and clack and change clinks
dropping into gnarled fingers,
warm plates stacked with eggs and meat are sent gliding across the
counters,
sombre and weathered patrons shovel in the toast and wash it down with
bottomless coffee,
other night owls burst through the frost paneled door and take refuge
from the cold in the vinyl cushioned booths,
insipid chatter and a loud TV blasts hockey announcer twang,
salt is peppered over the "Trucker Special,"
as the steaming grill is laced with oil,
an old man slowly works through a steak and onions and sips a cold 50'
he sings to himself, a dirty old Winnipeg Jets cap sits lightly tilted
on his head,
sitting with a cousin, he goes on to tell me about his frustrating work
and demanding girlfriend,
the conversation broken by the cook and a drunk laughing heartily,
the waitress smokes quickly outside the window,
shivering in her long coat,
a young mother and her baby girl eat peacefully in a corner booth,
the little girl happily tapping the tray covered with dry cheerios,
some fall on the floor as the baby laughs and yells,
"I'm alive...are you?" she is asking in baby language,
The old man at the bar smiles and nods and takes a large swallow of his
50.