If there’s no rain, the mailman comes at 2:30 on the dot.
In the mornings, though I am not there to see them myself,
the crossing guards gather like geese 20 minutes before the onslaught
of first graders. The bagel place popular with the high-school crowd
nudges its front doors open at 7, and the corner barbershop takes
great pride in welcoming its first buzz cuts by 8. It would seem easy, then,
to chart one’s movements by this same clock, say “I will make the big decision
by lunch” or “This terrible mood will be over by the evening news.”
But no such timepiece ticks as our own work opens and closes, the blooms
inexact and imprecise, each which is its own beauty, its own perfect timing.