After Billy Collins’ “Eastern Standard Time”
I am a woman of many time zones.
I’ve lived in 4 and loved people in
more than double that.
You are one of them, I’m sure.
So, while I sit on the carpet of my bedroom, typing this poem,
Billy Collins’ book open beside me,
clothes strewn about,
my feet crossed,
evening air slipping through the window,
I don’t know what you are doing.
You might be sleeping, as any reasonable person would.
You might be writing, too, for school or for self-help, like me.
You might be teaching;
reading a bedtime story to your kid;
completing an online school course;
running in the city’s forest;
biking with your backpack strapped loose to your shoulders.
There are any number of options for your activity in another
Who am I to know.
Needless to say, I’m writing of time zones,
and I wish I could be in all of them.
I wish I could read your words as you write them,
or listen as your child asks you the definition of a word,
sit on the back of your bike,
or maybe just pass you on your morning run.
But I stay here for now,
writing on my bedroom floor,
and hope for a miracle.