At the Other End of Time

Running away from the Great Consumer of Time,

Tristram, you had your brief moment of love,

the country maid in southern France;  the rhyme

of romance in such subtle tones, a dove

could never flutter more softly, nor feather move

in the evening’s music more silently.  A crime

if you had missed the opportunity

to linger in that twinkling before the slime

of some old slug depressed your wistful eye.

Here too, one afternoon, the pilgrims rushing by,

the market trolleys laden with fresh fish,

I bought one bread, a little loaf in time

and in that second of transaction, wish

I’d asked for two and lingered in your rhyme.