poem

Figure Forty

One second, the time it takes

to inhale and exhale a breath,

held for a beat then released.

Not the breath of a lover

or worried mother

breathing in fractions of a second,

held for one long moment

at the touch of fingers tips

or a ringing phone, released

with a cry in the night.

60 an hour, let’s say, breath

upon breath upon breath beginning with

that first one exhaled with a scream,

an eternity passing before the next;

enough drama for one day.

I’ve done the math. 86,400 a day,

sun up to sun down around

the clock, long days drifting on

currents of breath, lazy eddies spinning

off here and there, galaxies receding

away only to bob to the surface down

stream, a Doppler trick of memory.

Days on end approaching like the

mailman taking time to squint at a

number or chat with the codger

at the end of the block. Or like a

tracked fastball thrown in a late inning,

stitching registered only

after you hear the smack of the

ball in the glove, only after the

thought: full count.

Have I got my figures right?

3650 days to a decade, a

calculation done in the head, a

quick tap to wedge a zero into place at

the end of a year of days, time

pressed between bookends, ten thin

texts stand at attention, spines out,

proclaiming eras; “The Sixties”, Disco,

Reagan, Me. Abandoned station platforms

viewed through frosted glass, receding

to pinpoints of light that blink off

finally, forgotten in the steady snare

beat keeping time on rails that drift

toward each other, bent on collision

far up the track. Check my work, I’ve

never been good at math: 14,600 days

is a long time to wander in the desert

looking for the Promised Land. Better

use the bathroom before setting

out. Now for some multiplication:

350,000 hours or 21,024,000

minutes; I don’t trust the calculator

any farther than I can throw it. Let’s

get back on firmer ground; seconds

and breathing. One second, the time

it takes to inhale and exhale a

breath, held for a beat then

released. A lovers breath promising

an era of seconds, sixty every

minute, in lost time on a slow

mail train to the Promised Land,

bent on collision again and

again far up the track.