What Time It Gets To Be
By Martha Zweig
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,
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.