At ten I remember summers vast as Lake
Superior, stretching to the horizon
like wheat fields in Nebraska where
the aching eye seeks something
on the horizon to attach itself.
I remember periods in school
during which I grew an inch while
leaves opened from tight buds,
lengthened, turned crimson and fell
on the trees of my bored mind.
Every day had twenty-eight hours.
Now a day has only sixteen. Each
skinny hour is leaking minutes.
Even twenty years ago, I had
time enough to loll in now and then.
That was then. Now time runs
its buzzsaw through my brain.
I barely fit inside my days.
They pinch me fore and aft
hardly room to breathe.
I want time out. I want to stop
the whirring of the clock hands
like fans gone mad. My own age
confuses me. When did I stop
being young? Time sneaks
up on you like a bicycle messenger
bearing down fast on your back
about to send you sprawling
your chin on the pavement bleeding
and you'll never know what hit you.