Thursday, May 10

Schedule, Fox

Here in the realm of the wall calendar, which hangs prominently in my kitchen
I wield a pencil, and creatively fit in the track meet, rescheduled for an already bursting Thursday
I’ll move that lunch, note to self, to a day or week that shows more empty space
Next month, time will be more palpable.  Looking less the deceitful fox
of desperation slipping ever forward toward a skittish horizon
And more like an old reliable friend.  Measurable moments, written in boxes, held in my hand.

I like that I can view time unfolding with a flick of my hand
Lifting pages, traveling backwards, unbelieving.  Did I sleep through April? My kitchen
calendar tells no lies, and there stands May, defiantly staring out through me to an erratic horizon
Not steadfast and reliable like a horizon should be.  It lets Monday spool out into Thursday
Time flying not like a graceful bird.  A cunning fox
Deceitful, gone before I knew to celebrate it’s arrival.  And always the next commitment fills the space

May will betray like April has, eagerly anticipated appointments to blame in each geometric space
Yet those entries, the multitude of entries, have all been written by my hand
Am I the fox?
Slinking in, furtively grabbing a nub of pencil from the messy drawer in the kitchen
Marking in a required meeting, Tuesday.  Standing lunch date, husband, Thursday
Blinded to the forest and the trees with eyes always seeking the next thing on the horizon

I can stop the insanity.  Snap the pencil. Turn my back on the distant premeditated horizon
Hunker down hold tight to my time, this space
Look intently not at the boxes on the wall, but at each actual Thursday
And as it tries to slip through the door I will grab it by the hand
We’ll sit together, sipping something warm in the steadfast kitchen
And time will not fly.  Will not scamper out like an errant fox.

The chatter and smells, the laughter and warmth work wonders upon the cagey fox
Who circles twice, curls tail beneath him, and sleepily looks towards the horizon
Which, in this case, is the authoritative line of the calendar on the wall in the kitchen
The tiny boxes of perfection creating for each day a sacrosanct space
Where-upon I can execute little memories-to-be by my own hand
Good intentions at fault, as I hastily pencil in family concert in the park, next Thursday

I’m territorial, peeing all over in attempt to own Thursday
Freezing time, preventing it from slipping away from me into the overgrown grass, like a fox
Stealing my days, unspooling months and years with this slight-of-hand
Pages of the calendar flipping faster in their dash to the horizon
Leaving me empty space
An empty kitchen

I take an eraser in hand, and boldly reclaim Thursday
Unfolding itself in real-time. I linger in the kitchen, and kneel to pet the fox
Who no longer bolts for the horizon. Ours an unlikely partnership, being forged, in this reclaimed space.

No comments: