As kids we tried to hurry up the months
until our birthday, Christmas, Halloween,
or summer. Rolling cars around a track,
we dreamt of driving, smoking, looping arms
with lovers, flying planes or drinking beers
like on TV. We grew and drove to work,
had dates, made plans, had kids, and bought a house
with shutters, flower beds and grass to mow.
We shopped and watched the soccer games, still quaffed
a cold one with our friends, but some had moved
or lost a limb while others lost their hair.
We grabbed our chins and cursed the glass that showed
us lines or creases. Parents died, we ached
for time–– just months or days, oh please! The clock
won’t stop, it drives us now, the pedal to the floor.
Kim King ©2015