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September 24, 2017
Carol Anne Perini
I sit in the quiet of the dawn
sipping morning decaf with my Lady.
“The coffee’s good,” she says, hugging the cup
warming her belly, inside and out.
She asks about the weather but she
cannot hear my reply. Knocking on
the table next to her, checking her aides, she wonders aloud, “did I put
them in right?”
It’s all alright I think.
The click-clack of the clock.
The scuff of her bed shoes.
The clearing of her throat.
The ticking of her heart.
When I am with my Lady hurry has no place.
It never does, have a place, except on the outside.
But hurry always rushes in to hail me,
striking away content,
charging at peace, hammering quiet
to regale me with tales of its power
lying about how important it is, you see,
to do and do and do.
“Hurry,” hurry says. “Hurry,” hurry yells from down the hall urging me to run for my coat.
When I am with my Lady airplanes pass overhead,
garbage trucks rumble on the street,
the neighbor’s cat slips through the patio,
she, in no hurry.
Inside the phone does not scream for hello,
the clock is not set to up-set,
the timer sits silent in the kitchen
having lost its job.
When I am with my Lady anxiety slips off like the shroud that hurry would have had me captured in.
When I am with my Lady
I feel how perfectly the couch holds my back and buttocks and thighs and calves.
I scooch my shoulders into the pillow. Top.
My head rests on the rest.
I notice how my feet sit on the floor, inviting me to toss my shoes.
In no hurry.
I notice how surrendering to the comfort I feel causes hurry to worry.
I don’t worry about hurry.
I measure each step, forgetting to count.
I don’t fret my fingernails
or the size of my thighs
or the smell of my breath
or the reasons for my hurry.
I sip her morning decaf
I forget to worry about hurry
Listening to the ticking of her heart