I've been waiting for time to stop for me
-----------tapping around at the backs of wardrobes
—only to find there was nowhere to go.
So with no lions and no yellow brick roads, I had to
settle for the 9 o'clock train to Chicago.
To my surprise, I found I had crossed the invisible line into
Central Time, setting back my watch like a human being
in a mythical land, trying to pretend she belongs there.
I will walk with counterfeit authenticity into mom-and-pop
convenience stores beneath harsh florescent lights at midnight,
my own personal 1 a.m.
Or maybe I will never get off this train.
How much time can I borrow?
How many hours, how many days to be stolen?
How many years, lifetimes, worlds can I have?
Perhaps I'll fall asleep and wake up with no idea
when the hell I am, disorientated
Knowing only that somehow, somewhere, my life
waits for me in an armchair by the window, lit
by a single wan lamp glowing.
But he needn't know about you,
my secret life of borrowed time.
He'll be frozen where he is,
asleep while we are waking.
And my Real Life needn't know
that you are pool chlorine in my hair
and rumpled magazines and hasty
poetry on hotel paper that will
be in a different language in the morning
when I come home…