"I wish it were time,"
He says with his hand on his hat,
Scurrying around the console
As if he were playing duck, duck, goose
With some invisible opponent.
"Time for what?"
You ask, ever the straight man
For his bent jokes..
He stops and looks at you,
And you wish you'd eaten
A heartier breakfast
Or perhaps stayed in bed
With a bad novel
Or a good companion.
"No, I wish it were Time,"
He repeats, and pauses,
Scratching the tip of his nose,
"Wish it were Time that
Made it all worthwhile,
That straightened out the kinks
And made sure the strawberry ice cream
Didn't melt."
"Isn't it?"
"Ah, no," he says, "it's me.
All of it. I even have to vacuum up, after."
You turn, and, without a word,
Go looking for a bowl of strawberry ice cream
To dump over the pretentious bastard's head.

by Mad Poetess

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