time in the essence

all day yesterday i thought it was tomorrow

because my watch’s day-of-the-month counter

had skipped ahead when i wasn’t looking.

i own two books on time and have completed neither of them;

i could be waiting for just the right moment,

which may also never come (or which has flown by unrecognized).

at the end of the week monday morning seems a century ago,

and if you ask me monday how my weekend was i won’t remember, despite

its surfeit of happy innocuous deeds.

for three minutes — now four —

i have sat staring into space,

trying to pen a pithy closing.

but midnight looms once more,

and i have lost all my wit.