Aye, this is good and telling, this gets the irony; our search for salvation and eternal life is conducted in an existence of limited duration. In our haste to find and follow a path of wisdom, we make mistakes justified with disguised versions of unwarranted pride, which blocks us from the sunshine of the spirit. It would seem a rigged game, "gaffed" as they say in the Carnie, that keeps us running in circles, Nice choice. A poem of my own about time and change, in several nuanced meanings.

What It’s Time For

I was a sneak thief

for the passion of

Joan who croons

in the moonlight

that falls upon her Daddy’s car,

a Cadillac Seville

that he drove but once a week

on Friday nights

when he was ready

to tie one on

with a new issue of rope.

I know all about

taking a peek

under the slats of

witless blinds,

I know all about

your business

and I wish it were mine,

this road to happiness

is studded with rocks

and barbed wire,

Joan, I ask you,

what’s a girl like you

doing in a nice

place like this?

That’s all there is

from this side of the fence,

outlaw existence

is persistence

in the clothes

that gets worn

for days without a

wash, the important matters

are louder than what any newscaster

declaims,

we need a place where the hash browns are good

and the cash register is full.

Those were days

when I didn’t

miss a guess

about whose car

would follow whose

in that slow chase seen

that wound up in

motel rooms near

the airport

or the county fairgrounds,

counting the cash

and cutting the coke

on a table top

that was scarred with burns

and initials carved

into the black, waxy buildup.

Those were days

when no had

a watch

because everyone

in Daddy’s car knew

what it was always time for.