Office Hours

I am convinced that none of them will come;
Nor did I so, when I was as they are.
The thought of timely help is distant from
The minds of youth, as is the nearest star.
Tonight perhaps, or in the morning they
Spurred by a sudden need, will venture out
Sending the common email, starting "hey"
Announcing then their scintilla of doubt
Which had been eased, had they but come by now.
But it is rude, and quite unfair to ask
That they, who never learned or noticed how
Should use this time to elevate their task;
We did not lead them, so they did not drink.
We only teach them, but never to think.

Mimir

The egotism of my certain soul
Assures me I in some way am remembered
Perhaps in but the part and not the whole
My year of self audaciously Novembered
But some of me--enough to be quite sure
That if I tap a shoulder and say hi
The object of my greeting won't demur
Objecting to my claimed acquaintance. Why?
Because I blithely claim a certain place
Within the world, and this in memory
Naively certain time will not erase
The record of my presence. Yet, surely
I am no more than any other who
Might be forgotten. So must I be too.

Delta

In flying cross the country I
Did not achieve what I set out
To do; instead I wandered by
And back and forth. I do not doubt
That those who did this to me did
Not mean to do it, or intend
To harm my soul or flip my lid
And still they did so by the end.
In flying back where I began
Though not where I began at all
I saw a melancholy man
In one half-glimpse across the hall
Only to know, upon reflection
It merely mirrored my dejection.

Leavening Agency

There is a certain irony
In how Pesach is often done
That makes a brittle mockery
Of when our people had to run.
They seized the moment, so it's said,
To flee with what they had at hand:
A yet unrisen load of bread
Whose yeast had not had time to stand.
To celebrate this blessed flight
We now refrain from yeast and flour
But to replace, and make doughs light,
Sit beating eggs for hour on hour
Which, had they had the time to do,
I think the bread had risen too.

Delay

Airport time is not real time at all
Suspended as we are, clocks do not strike
The sands float in the glass and do not fall.
As in the moment between hut and hike
We start but falsely, circling our hands
In futile hope of someday moving on
But til the plane that we all wait for lands
Reality around us is all gone.
We while the hours away secure and bored
Pretending an excitement no one feels
To fly, as if the very airport soared.
But here instead we sit, cooling our heels
Waiting for who knows, unmoved and drear,
Unaging, uneventful, and yet here.