It’s returned, that hour lost last April,
slipped in at 2am while a half-moon gleamed
in the pine. Hovered while I slept,
unclaimed angel, tick-tock.
But I don’t desire to use it yet —
I want to be selfish, I want to hoard.
I want to tear it into ten-minute bits,
fold one into my wallet for the late appointment,
one in the vegetable bin when lolla rosa
need last until supper. Under my pillow
to extend the dream, in the oven to slow
Quick Yellow Cake. I’ll give one to my son
to get out of jail free. And one
I’ll bury in the garden in eternal plastic,
mark an X with apples. Maybe
I’ll forget it’s there. And just maybe,
in the next century someone will unearth
a ten-minute treasure, spend it lavishly.
copyright 2010 T. Clear
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