Originally posted 3/14/2013.

Maybe that clock of yours is sick,
or maybe time itself is ill, but 
either way, trust me — it’s not time yet.

You’re going nowhere,
not at least until the daffodils in the front yard
are fully up and open.

There’s bad television to watch yet,
lots of it, enough that we could get tired
of watching and go for a walk.

You can’t go until we’re both tired of bad TV
and we decide that even a walk up and down
this terrible hill of a street is better than that.

I know I’m right. That clock of yours 
is sicker than you are, or time itself is what’s ill — 
you’re going nowhere until the daffodils

have bloomed twice 
and we’re in great shape from walking away
from bad TV.  Then once we’re in shape — 

not this spring but next — we’ll replant the beds
out front and get something
other than daffodils in there;

I know you love that yellow but face it,
everyone’s got daffodils.  When we walk
the hill, you’ll see all the daffodils

in all the yards.  You’ll see — 
the robins are back.  You’ll see
the sodden trash of after winter

and how much still needs doing.

Just listen to me, please:  your clock
is sick and so is time itself.  Please
don’t agree with them in their fever.

Please don’t agree with time,
with how it’s burning you up.  
Say you’re going nowhere, please.  Say

the only place you are going
is to the couch to watch bad TV with me
until it’s time for our walk.  

Say the clock
is delirious, is making a huge mistake,
is too sick to be right. Please.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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