Time

You and your damn crows
and vultures, Time.
Always they’re out there:
in trees in threes for crows,
soaring solo or in posses
for buzzards.  It’s like
you can’t not remind me
of your inevitable
last grin down upon me,

and don’t get me started
on how scared I become
in the moment after I’ve congratulated myself
for sweeping a worm off the front walk,
or each time I chase down and slay a fly.

That sinking feeling of knowing
it’s all a holding action.
That moment of wondering
when you, Time, will throw me
to your pets.

I’m sick of you and your insistence.
Friends say it’s just coincidence,
that there’s no definite presage of death
in these things…
but I know what they all eat.
I know their hunger.  I know
I’m fat, soft,
and an easy pick with this head of mine
that won’t shut up about making it easier
for them…

ah, Time, I get it now:
it’s just your way to tease me
with the death-eaters
in the midst of my living.
It’s what you are best at:
using the little things,
the obvious things,
to reveal yourself as an arrow
pointing inexorably
one way.