When I came in, I noticed Time

sitting on a polished wooden bench where

the morning sun splashed on the marble floor all

around him. An eager kid scrubbed

and fresh out of some School of Promises.

Something in a hopeful tweed.

A moment ago I glanced at my watch

To see it’s 40 years later,

and much later in the day.

I looked over to smile at Time and I can’t believe it.

I think he got mugged when I glanced away

Along with some kind of medical condition

that should have been caught much earlier.

This polished bench now looks scarred

by generations of expectant dreams

that didn’t come true

but smoothed over by dreams that did.

Worn to a sheen by so many of us before.

Just waiting for our moment,

as if it were a train arriving or departing.

But I slide over to offer sympathy to Time.

His old beat-up eyes look at me with

a thousand years of kindness

he learned somewhere in that afternoon.

In a confidential whisper he assures me,

“Of course it’s absolutely worth every moment”

He smiles and adds, “Not to worry,

it will be here soon.”

I realize that a lot of people I never noticed

are moving to the same gate with him;

slow, old and smiling when their eyes meet.

Just before the train, I see the ticket in his hand,

Looks just like a monthly but dated in decades or more.

He catches my glance and smiles,

“And it’ll be bright and early again tomorrow!”

“Coming?”

But I’m lost in the roll of life in the approaching train

whistle that sounds exactly the same. Morning or night.