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Time is the universal chauffeur
by Willis Barnstone
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Time is the universal chauffeur. Slow
he
carts me through space,
but when he dumps me I've no place to go.
He's
also the surgeon general
who
heals (and in time kills). He heals with hours
and days,
his best pill of all--
no
ointment or gauze--just his fat face
hovering
over me. And he is author
of
a novel titled LIFE. I'm crammed in his briefcase,
plotted
in chapters till THE END.
A
famed dermatologist he moderates the sun.
If
I measure him and cream down,
I
can always spot the damage he has done.
It's
the secret stuff inside
my
skinsack that worries me. Yes, machines catch
his
photo and footsteps, but I abide
with
fear. Once he's gone, I'm not. Often I try
to
slow him down as he walks
through
me. Slowtrack, I say. This clown is sly,
abstract
but relentless like a star,
and
goes through his set acts, laughing at me.
Godless,
I bless him for his laziness. |
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