Time, that thing--it is always changing
--itself, and all else, of course--
it sometimes flies, sometimes crawls
and occasionally waltzes
All these according to how it is spent
So now, I will step out of the smoky and expensive grill
Out of the dollar store
And into the family-owned shop,
where golden motes shine floating within golden rays
And a music box tinkles and chimes
and the wood is soft that makes up the shelves and the floor
and a kind old man smiles over his glasses at me
as I reach into my pocket and buy something that lasts
out of my supply of coin that--
may, or may not.
so that:
time
waltzes, for me
