Time does not march.
It stretches.
It arches its back
across the keyboard
precisely when you are trying
to be productive.
It knocks a glass off the table
with deliberate eye contact,
as if to say,
“You weren’t using that future anyway.”
When you call for it,
rattling the dry kibble of a deadline,
Time is suddenly deaf,
busy staring at a dust mote
or grooming its paws
in a sunbeam you can’t reach.
But at three in the morning
it decides to zoom,
tearing across the floorboards of your sleep,
wide-eyed and manic,
hunting a second
that already got away.
By afternoon it has located
the single sheet of paper
you actually needed.
Not the junk mail.
Not the blank notebook.
No – the handwritten plan,
creased with intention,
annotated with hope.
It circles once.
Twice.
Then lowers itself
with ceremonial indifference
and settles
squarely in the center.
You can try to slide it out.
Time will not move.
It narrows its eyes
to a slit of ancient patience,
as if to say,
“If it were truly important,
you would not have left it
within reach.”
It weaves between your ankles
just as you’re rushing for the door,
nearly tripping you into the Tuesday
you were trying to skip.
And in the end,
when you finally stop checking the clock,
it jumps onto your lap.
Not because you’ve earned it,
but because you’ve finally sat still.
It curls into a tight, warm circle,
tucking its nose under its tail,
perfectly content
to let the universe wait
until it’s done
with this particular nap.
You realize then:
Time doesn’t belong to you.
You’re just the one
who provides the lap.