That Miraculous Free Time for Which Everyone Longs

I hate to admit it after all these years, but
I suppose I have found that miraculous free time
For which everyone longs―
That time with which―if we had it―
We would all do those wonderful things
That need doing, and upon which the world
Is waiting to be a better place.

I have learned, as if from the cop shows on TV,
That such free time can be commandeered
Like a car from it’s owner,
Whom I shall affectionately* call,
Little Miss Not Feeling (Like Doing Anything).

And as it turns out, after having
Flashed one’s badge and flagged her down,
Bringing her car to an unplanned halt,
One can apologetically direct the surprised
Driver to the passenger’s seat,
After which one may take the wheel,
Getting done what needs doing, while also
Enjoying every minute of her stolid company,
*If you know what I mean.

And this way, everybody wins―
Except, of course, the Little Miss,
Who generally prefers the losing
To the inconvenience of winning―
And for this reason, should probably
Never be allowed to drive, I must admit.

And if it makes any difference
To your sensibilities about
The unkindness of the commandeering,
Let us observe for the record
That she was unhappy already,
Before the commandeering.

I know her, and I can tell you
That she may be dragged along
On many a mission,
Some of which may prove so inspiring
As to make her miraculously disappear
Which, it seems to me,
Is itself yet another reason
She ought not be allowed to drive!

Dear Reader,
By no means do I think that there is time enough for every good thing we can think of doing. Surely, there is time for more than most of us will ever come close to doing, but speaking for myself, God gave me an imagination that far outstrips my ability to keep up. I have, so far in my life, thought of a great many projects and investigations that I could not complete, even if I were to become rich, and could hire teams of competent people to help carry out.

And for the record, I myself struggle with getting Little Miss Thing out of the driver’s seat. Hence, the first line of this poem (or “piece”, or whatever these writings should be called.)

Leave a Reply