Coming into school on the shuttle I see the fresh-mown
stripes of bright green and its back on the hill from
the archives to the sparkled harbor, all the fall light left,
and think how can I get there? Past the construction, bus
lanes, out of the office, into the sun: I’ll get there. Yesterday
I went to Boston Children’s, a terrific hospital, where we’re
so happy Mojie gets to take her little boy. Rafe needs a surgery
surgeons say will take all day. They explain it’s like flying
somewhere; the flight doesn’t take that long, but you have
to get your ticket, get to the airport, TSA, the whole thing.
The interstitial times, the hour it takes to get to the fourteen
hour day, the ways the time with Ada’s work makes each
minute worthwhile. No time for breakfast, but eight minutes
to sit with a cup of coffee, nestled next to Josey. My father
made the cups. We’re getting there. Is it the journey or
the destination? glossy subway ads ask, posters for a cruise
I don’t ever want to take, and anyway, who has the time?
But I can read my friend’s poems on the T in the morning,
hold on to the warm weight of Josey’s arm on my hip.
I Have Plenty of Time
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