Time

Time is the burglar to whom we all
open our doors. Casually
we watch him
rummaging through our lives,
examining with his commercial eye
our lives
bits and pieces that are
our lives.
What a puzzlement when he chooses
inconsequential knicknacks
we haven’t looked at in years.
What fear when he scrutinizes
a cherished heirloom of our past,
polished religiously, kept in a place of honor.
What disappointment
when he tosses it aside.
“Take it!”, we want to scream,
“It’s important!”.
Expressionless, he looks at us
and shrugs.

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