You always catch my feet in the middle of a swivel—
the two extremities stumble, tumbling
like they’ve just gotten off a roller coaster
and my eyes take time to refocus
because, in my mind, I was running as free as a Ponca,
unaware of the of the marker on my back,
unaware that the Calvary had a map that said
“this land is your land, but this land is my land”
and I was in the area labeled ‘Dead man’s zone’
skipping past signs that read ‘No trespassing,’
‘Do not enter’ without even knowing,
without even feeling the sting of your stringed arrow
as you hit your mark—until you started tugging,
that is—pulling me back as you would a yo-yo.
But again this was all in my head.
Really, I return to hear another inane question:
“You’re sure you haven’t seen my . . .?”
Words fade like the smile of the Cheshire cat
and the tick tick tick! of my pocket watch sounds
as loud as Poe’s tell-tale heart. “You’re late!”
my mind screams but “Yes, I’m sure”
leaves my mouth. You are the cardiod queen
on her throne looking haughty, while I’m rooted
under your lasso, you hassle me with more words
that fall into my rabbit hole dreams.
But no, I can’t spare another dime because money
is time and time is money and
I have a date with fate and I’m already late!
