Time's Indexes

by Henry Woram | 5/10/17 2:20am

Forgive us; we knew the grindstone too well

to believe cigar smoke and Rolexes

were worth coffee-stained years staring at “Dell”

and retirements spent unwinding time’s indexes.

We unfurled life along the football field

and read it in crumpled notes, and we let

back-of-taxi-cab oratories yield

meaning that we scooped with butterfly nets.

We waded in thoughts that danced in moonlit

windows on nights that bent time’s prison bars.

We ferried meaning ’cross conscious rivulets.

With toothy grins we held life in our arms.

But now I shak’ly give my life to greed

because if I’m not fruit, who needs my seed?