Keep time to the backyard spigot
leaking into tin bucket, reverberating
through epochs of my mind.

Drip-  drop
On-off.

Beyond my headlights: red, blinking
connect-the-dots
trace the horizon for me
as I drive the family SUV through midnight,
counting       rows       of       Illinois       corn . . .

Morning opens our eyes to suburban Midwest ocean:
verdant front yards, newly mowed,
rippling rows winding
in
&        out
white, green, white
dark then light,
blonde hair ready for braiding—
Mom separating the gold from the honey.

We park at the house on the corner.
If I squint, I think I can see my brothers’
old escapades proclaimed
on peeling birch trees.

My skin will    sag my eyes    will dull
my hair will    thin,    my pace    will slow
but maybe Time can live in this house,

the still point of my turning world,
watching me scatter my stones and gather them.

But my words build a mirror, not a window into life:
See Time dancing in the reflection there . . .
sometimes our reflected silhouettes align

while we imagine the past and escape the future,
eyes drooping shut in the backseat of the car—
neither asleep nor awake—until the door opens
and Dad carries you to bed.

Rust ballooning outward, in laggard circles,
From water still
Drip-
dropping
in that backyard bucket.