a theory of relative things
by ryk mcintyre
[ poetry - november 04 ]
As my time comes,
I want to subscribe to it
in sections, easy
like stacking boxes.
my name, each bottom line-
enough for another day.
I just wish I could rearrange
the boxes when I needed to,
my place in time. force time
closer to my compromise;
use all the right angles.
I'd pick out minutes;
choose a moment; re-live it.
move space, push time around
the clock like furniture,
a living room,
not just a place to stack boxes.
but we weren't well-timed, yes?
it wasn't the right space
for us (too far apart,
and I'm too old...)
by thirteen years and all the miles,
Worcester to Toronto.
But if I could find the right box,
wade through old baggage for what's true,
I'd trade all this inventory with God,
cause that's the scale on which I love you:
one mile equals one mile I'd walk
to bend space like a folding map
until Massachusetts kissed Canada
just so you might kiss me back.
And I won't grow older, I swear;
this September I won't turn forty-three.
I'll crawl through the Grandfather clause,
make the clock-hands
until you could catch up with me.
Until then, I'll sign for each day,
I promise. stacking boxes,
leaving no room for regret.
I don't want to waste time,
any of the time,
whatever time you and I have left.
I just pray
through time and space
that who, what,
where, and when
will always be pleasing to you...
just ask me:
I'd rearrange my room
just to make room for you.