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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.

It’s all


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 sit,


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.

When I am with my Lady

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.

When I am with my Lady

I sip her morning decaf

I forget to worry about hurry

Listening to the ticking of her heart


it’s all,


No hurry.

Namaste' y'all

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