What Time It Gets To Be

I was just getting to that.
But first, old age.
If you could just let me finish.

Once it was I who rudely
interrupted proceedings: the chair rapped
& called to order, but I seized from pending

approval the minutes & ran
off with the handsome mustachioed
night watch. Matching wits we wound up
jangling on a motel
bureau in simultaneous
alarm & ran down
together to silence,

Bide-a-Wee’s appointed
guest in his sleep deceased
so far from home he didn’t know
a soul. A what? We heard  
Gideons rustling in the drawer,

& as we rifled the fellow’s bags before we fled,
& fled, his time flew too,
from his cuffs & collars flapping ahead.


More Poems by Martha Zweig