When the day begins, the sun comes up halfheartedly and pushes against the darkness,
casual like your knee showing through torn jeans,
or a curtain tugged reluctantly aside in a dingy theater.
Time enters, steps to the center, comfortable with her own pace,
and now she stage-whispers an aside:
“When will you see that I’m the main player? I’m the good girl next door,
Not like that dirty whore, Money.
What a slut she is, shoving me into the corner,
begging you to dote on her–
She even claims to be me, or that I am she!
Don’t you know– ? You could spend all day with me.
But with that impostor, the minute you begin to spend, she is gone.
I’ll still be here when night falls
And the moon shines down on us, abed together.
Yes, I’ll still be here when you stop groping for Money.”
Time is jealous of her audience with you.
Dear reader, if you’re enjoying my poetry, now’s the time (ha, ha) to order one or both of my books. Thanks, I appreciate your support!
–Adam G. Fleming