TIME IS PLASTIC

Time is plastic, but not like Lego—
more like taffy.

Toss whole seconds aside, or
..stretch
.one
. . . . out.

Francesca and I can race
through whole days in close proximity,
forget it all and then a few minutes together
can slink along like the dog doing a belly drag
on the patch of cheap carpet by my bed.

Dad turned 85 and then fell and hurt himself
again. He’s got, what: years? Months? Days?
That spell swells with expectations
like a python’s belly. How much more
can we cram into that tautening space before
it bursts, and the whole snake rots?

Mom lay dying in a ditch,
hit by a car and pitched from her bike
onto the grassy shoulder. How long did that take?
How long did it feel? When she hit the ground,
was she already gone—or still awake?

I’ll never know, but I imagine her
memories in that moment collapsed
in on themselves like a singularity,
an exhausted star forming a black hole.

Elasticity in reverse. The weight
too much for the universe to hold.

Jay Ulfelder is a D.C. native and longtime Maryland resident who is writing poetry after ending his career as a social scientist.

Featured image “Plastique récent moins de 5 ans) mais dégradé UV altitude pyrénnées.” Photographed and uploaded by Lamiot to be licensed via creative commons 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.