In Time

Rhythm is fingers against the pavement
waving false sentiment into the sun
and forwarding emails,

farewell movie stars,
trailers that live inside populous
falsehood and watery forgiveness,
where I wept inside my jeans
and forgot to make the bed.

Lonely mastery of ourselves,
only makes the landing quieter
and the stemmed borrowing
from this earth that much lighter.

If I were
to weave in and out
enough butchered English
would you love me again?
Would the sun rise just so as
it once had, once more,
once upon a time.
Marry Poppins lost her suitcase again,
and I forwarded an email.

Men are so clean,
so dashing, and so mean,
and I flail like a small child in pajamas,
pretending my cell phone is a space ship,
and waiting for when what have you
is enough.

Well, as long as I wait,
it won't.