My Dear Time
Watching you rave on a hot afternoon
denies me every opportunity to think right;
I try to unravel what is wrong with you;
sometimes, I wonder where you got the energy
to sprint like a ghost confronting a human
when he thinks everywhere is dark and empty.
I can imagine your face on such occasions,
horror, disbelief, anger and disgust.
It's what others and I go through
each time you run across our paths like air,
as though our fate is of little concern to you.
Don't even think of offering me an excuse
or an explanation or apology, or a refund,
for what is damaged cannot be repaired,
and not even you have the power and skill
to bring it back to its original state or form.
I wanted to tell you that I am not in Hell yet,
when you can without a body melt away
into the horizons where no one catches your speed,
or your breath or your ashes when you melt.
Here in Heaven, I don't need you to speed,
or gallop away as if I hang between trees.
I am still busy with the backlog of my destiny
which your previous speed deposited for me.
And if you continue to give me this blackout
or this paralysis each time I hear your gong,
I may have to do something drastic to halt you.
Now, it is getting late, and this dalliance
between you and me makes me hysterical,
but since you swore to abandon me in darkness
I must hurry to cork your ashes in an iron urn
and scatter them over the Mediterranean Sea.
And please, do not tell me to calm down
and that you will fix things right.
Who do you think you are, my father?
My father is the only man who fixes all things,
including those things which my mother damaged,
our kitchen roof she smeared with cooking smoke,
our wardrobes, she pulled down for a red hat,
only to remember that she did not buy any.
Author: Jonathan Chibuike Ukah
Photo: Photo by Ayo Ogunseinde on Unsplash
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