A Stray

My life just appeared one day
out of nowhere. I fed it out of kindness.
It stuck around, so now it’s mine,
I suppose. But one’s never really sure.
It might actually belong to someone else.
I might have stolen it, unawares.
I think I’ll always wonder and worry it.
It can’t give me any answers about that.
It stares dumbly at me as a mirror when I ask.
I have the weirdest feeling someone might show up
one day, and then I’ll have to give it back.
But I know it will only be fair. Only right.
Someone might have been waiting all this time
for it to return, broken with the loss. So
now I have this sense of expectation
of that day, that hour. I even try to keep
a little smile ready for that moment
of delayed justice.

Time, Inc.

This nothing that comes from nowhere
is splendid–for a while. Even if
it doesn’t have much time, it has duration,
which is better. Pleasure is duration.
But so is pain. Agonizing duration. Time,
truth be told, is nothing without us.
We get this uncanny sense it has been
seeking us out. For aeons. Sometimes,
it even feels like somebody is lurking us there.
It’s like that mysterious agency that opened up
down the street. ┬áThe one that’s always closed.
What is its business? What does it really want
from us? Why be there but never open?
Why this ridiculous sense of suspense?
We pass the dark facade and try to look in,
but can only ever see our own dark reflections.