assurances

There is time, they say,
to dig deep and live shallow,
pecking at stumps of memories,
for new aches and old pains,
and insipid loves hanging by
dusty curtains to keep the sun out.

There is time yet, they predict,
for the downpour when all will be
washed away, left behind, exchanged
for sparkling newness, (as if it is indeed
that easy,) and you will sail triumphant
on puddles, like the ship of theseus.

There is time, they remind you,
to walk the path you had plotted
all these years, in (vain)glorious detail
with nobody watching, even if the key
is lost and you wonder if the map
in your hands is upside down.

There is time, they promise you,
to look at yourself in the mirror,
find old familiar lines, and the
new grey that sprawls the thinning
landscape of your scalp, and label
each by unremarkable experience.

There is time still, they are sure,
for eliot's wisdom and a selfie
with godot. To fiddle with ill-fitting
boots and shop for coffee spoons,
in second-hand books carrying
strangers’ names, and missing pages.

There is time, they console you,
to reclaim instinct and waddle
in the bath tub weightlessly waiting
for epiphanies of all you could be,
unshaken by newspapers overflowing
with stories of “accidental” drownings.

There is time, they lament,
that you have strapped across
your wrist in wistful hope, until late
into a moonless night, by yourself,
all at once, that comforting ticking
goes silent. And so do they.