March 30: Passage of Time, Billy Collins, "No Time"

Thinking a lot about time this morning.  The passage of time.  The slowness of it.  The speed of it.  How it gets away from you, from sunup to sundown.  To-do lists left undone.  Books left unread.  Poems left unwritten.

I wonder if it was the same for my parents.  My mom and dad always seemed to get shit done, all the time.  They didn't procrastinate.  I don't think it was part of their makeup.  Perhaps that's my generation's contribution to society.  That and parachute pants.

Here's Saint Marty's to do list for today:

1. Vacuum, sweep, and mop at home.
2. Straighten the living room.
3. Clean off the kitchen and dining room tables.
4. Pick out music for Mass.
5. Play the pipe organ for Mass.
6. Finish reading the book for Book Club.
7. Put together the discussion questions for Book Club.
8. Revise poem that I wrote on Wednesday.
9. Stare into the abyss.
10. Roll into a ball and contemplate the meaninglessness of everything.
11. Practice self loathing.
12. Make the beds.

A poem that makes me think of my sister standing up in the cemetery and looking over her glasses at me, like she always did . . . 

No Time

by:  Billy Collins

In a rush this weekday morning,
I tap the horn as I speed past the cemetery
where my parents are buried
side by side beneath a slab of smooth granite.

Then, all day, I think of him rising up
to give me that look
of knowing disapproval
while my mother calmly tells him to lie back down.