I am late.
My thoughts are late.
No one approves of me.
Not because they wait.
Not because they care.
But being late is an imposition
on their importance.
I cause no harm
because no one thinks I’m worth waiting on.
But it is a principle,
the social fabric,
part of being a public and social animal.
So I apologize to everyone
who notices I am late,
sneaking to the table,
bumping knees,
begging forgiveness.
However,
no one ever asks why I am late.
That the universe held me up in conversation.
That galaxies asked me directions.
That birds sat with me
listening to the concert of the wind,
and I was obliged to wait
until it was over,
not to disturb anyone.
That a dog had a message for me,
kissed my hand
and asked me to linger for a moment.
Dogs do require time,
like love,
one doesn’t hurry,
and who’s to say our conversation isn’t important?
And for a moment
God asked me to stop and admire the sky.
It was so beautifully drawn.
No one was looking at the purity of the blues,
the breathless rise of the clouds.
So I stopped and admired,
and hung it in my heart
with the rest of life’s collection.
So it was I was detained,
not late
so much as busy with myself,
and the happenings of the street
and woods and shore,
and last night’s dream
demanding a poem.
So forgive me,
I’ll take my seat,
stand at the back,
keep my mouth shut,
and resolve not to be late again,
unless